


Close Enough to Burn

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Series: Mama, we all go to hell [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Arson, Blood As Lube, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Come as Lube, Dark Eddie Kaspbrak, Dark Losers, Dark Richie Tozier, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, First Time, Fucked Up, Getting Together, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, Like late teens but still tread carefully, M/M, Matricide, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Rough Sex, Sonia Kaspbrak Being Terrible, Sub Eddie Kaspbrak, Teenagers, Top Richie Tozier, Weirdly Romantic Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: The first time Richie thinks about killing someone is a few months after the incident in the sewers, when he's woken by a nightmare.There’s a sensation, viscous and dark, that rolls down his spine, and makes him drive his teeth together as his fingers twist in the sheets on his bed. He doesn’t yet recognize it forpossessiveness,but he’s close enough to understanding it when he thinks of taking Sonia out of the picture, sweeping Eddie away in some grand, macabre gesture. Like a fairytale.Like a knight in shining armour.Richie’s going to make everything right in the world again, and he’s going to do it just for Eddie, who he loves so much ithurts.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Mama, we all go to hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020933
Comments: 27
Kudos: 141





	Close Enough to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This one is REALLY SERIOUS when I say Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Turn away if you can't handle anything that's tagged here.
> 
> It's very gory and very dark. 
> 
> Title is from the song ["Partners in Crime"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4oaU0fMSg3n9kqOwmLPVhH?si=G3m0ijk2QXK5NsEU3_N51w)
> 
> Also once again a huge shoutout to [Ren](https://fuckbitchesgetreddie.tumblr.com/) for taking the time to beta this, you beautiful, wonderful soul.

* * *

The first time he thinks about it -- _really_ thinks about it -- is after a dream.

In the intervening months since the incident with the clown, they’ve all been more than a little on edge. They’ve been caught in tense, drawn-out silence. They’ve climbed through each other’s windows after nightmares, crying and seeking comfort. They’ve been on high alert when anyone gets too close to… to _any of them._

Because _anything_ can happen, and none of them are willing to take the risk.

And Richie doesn’t know for sure, because he hasn’t voiced his concerns yet, but he wonders if maybe that strange, dark feeling has settled heavy in _their_ chests just the same as his. Like an infection, it bleeds a quiet anger into the rest of his body. There must be scar tissue building up inside of him from the spread of it, and no matter how much he fights it, he can feel the _thing_ growing with him.

Perhaps Henry Bowers had been just a kid like them before Derry got him in a chokehold, after all. Perhaps all of them had the potential to be _normal._

But Derry isn’t a town that thrives on innocence or normalcy. Derry is corrupt, and even as children some part of them had known that.

Now it’s in them, too. Or at least, it’s in Richie, like a virus, spreading and choking and changing him. 

(Maybe it’s always been there).

The first time he really thinks about killing someone (a _human_ someone) is after a run-of-the-mill nightmare about the sewers, about the cistern and _It._ About the rapidly-shifting identity of the beast.

His subconscious chooses to focus on, of all things, Sonia Kaspbrak’s face sneering down at them from above the ruffled collar of a shirt that’s straining desperately at the vivid orange buttons, fabric stretching and tearing as its overfilled, and her grating voice crooning an, “Eddie-bear, why don’t you love your mommy?”

There’s a sinking feeling in his gut -- in his dream-self’s gut -- when Eddie (dream-Eddie) stands down immediately. Cowers under her gaze.

It’s maw snaps open and Eddie is gone in a spray of blood and viscera, and Richie wakes shaking, soaked with sweat, nausea pricking at his throat. 

Somehow, he thinks he’s always understood perfectly well that Eddie is _terrified_ of his mother. That she’s everything this town feeds off of, hidden under the guise of motherhood. 

That he wants to get Eddie away from her but he doesn’t know _how._ He doesn’t know where to begin, or how to convince Eddie that it’s what’s best for him.

He imagines, then, pushing her down the well under 29 Neibolt Street, hearing the impact far below, knowing even if she survived the fall she wouldn’t be able to get herself out of that place, not however Bowers managed it. Or, failing that, pressing a pillow to her face until she stops struggling, and how the police, if called, would attribute her death to her weight, her failing health, her poorly-managed diabetes. 

Eddie would know. Eddie would know the truth, because Richie would tell him. He tells Eddie everything _(almost_ everything). But Eddie would know because Eddie would tuck himself up against Richie’s side, and he’d gaze up at him with soft eyes and he’d _thank him,_ he _would._ He’d thank Richie for saving him from her and he’d _know_ that no one will ever take care of him as well as Richie does. 

No one will ever protect him the way Richie does. 

Even when he doesn’t need it -- Eddie’s resilient as fuck all on his own, after all. Richie knows this, and Eddie is beginning to understand this, but Richie wants to always be there to keep him safe regardless.

There’s a sensation, viscous and dark, that rolls down his spine, and makes him drive his teeth together as his fingers twist in the sheets on his bed. He doesn’t yet recognize it for _possessiveness,_ but he’s close enough to understanding it when he thinks of taking Sonia out of the picture, sweeping Eddie away in some grand, macabre gesture. Like a fairytale.

Like a knight in shining armour.

Where, for once, it isn’t Bill who wears the armour, and Eddie can turn that enamoured gaze on _him,_ like he wants so badly.

He falls asleep again, some time later, and when he wakes he hasn’t forgotten these thoughts, but he tries to push them away. It isn’t right, thinking like that.

(But then, it isn’t _right_ to treat your child like _that,_ so who would really be in the wrong?)

When Eddie asks him what’s wrong later in the day (because he notices, of course he does), Richie decides in that moment that his dream and the desires that stem from it are not going to be part of the “everything” he tells Eddie. They fit better in that lonely category where his less platonic feelings reside, those secrets that will find their way out eventually, but not _yet._ He’ll tell Eddie -- he _will_ \-- but he needs them both to be braced for impact when he does, and they just aren’t right now.

So instead he answers a question with a question, and since it’s just the two of them walking their bikes down Kansas Street, side-by-side, he figures now is as good a time as any to ask, “Does your mom hurt you?”

It’s a stupid question, because he _should_ know the answer. He’s seen the rough way she handles him even in front of other people.

He regrets asking the moment Eddie opens his mouth to respond, because he thinks if he says it out loud then Richie might not be able to stop himself from going through with it. With getting rid of her for him. It’s the second time in twenty-four hours he’s felt that _ugly_ thing that insists Eddie isn’t for anyone else, that wants him to understand how cathartic it will be for them both when she isn’t breathing anymore.

“How did you know?” Eddie says, shrinking in on himself, and Richie feels _black_ inside.

  
  


*

  
  


Hard to believe that at any point in his life, Richie Tozier considered himself a pacifist.

He’s watched Eddie’s relationship with his mother deteriorate and had a front-row seat to Sonia Kaspbrak’s mental decline. He’s been the one to deal with the aftermath most often.

Whether that’s an effect of him living closest to Eddie and therefore being the most accessible in times of need, or because Eddie _prefers_ his company, he still can’t be sure, though he’d love to convince himself of the latter. 

There doesn’t seem to be much left of the little boy who rarely fought back, whose teachers and peers labelled him as “too sensitive,” who cried when animals died in movies. He’s not _him_ anymore, and he knows it just as well as he knows the rest of the Losers aren’t _them_ anymore. 

Or -- and he used to be afraid of to think this, but now he knows better -- maybe they’re more themselves than ever before.

They’ve all experienced something traumatic, and they’re all coping in their own ways, and for some of them (for Richie in particular) this means there’s something _different_ in them. Something a little darker, a little less forgiving, a little more influenced by the evil that’s lurking under their hometown. 

Eddie’s _different_ in a worse way. 

It isn’t that there’s no darkness (there is, Richie _knows_ there is, even if it’s difficult to detect). 

It’s that Eddie doesn’t stand up for himself anymore.

Richie hadn’t realized before how often Eddie has to assert himself, push back against hardships, demand autonomy or otherwise make himself _heard,_ until he _doesn’t._

_(Though he be but little…)_

His mother has evolved in her methods of keeping him meek, going somewhere well beyond overboard, and whatever she was trying for, it worked well enough.

Eddie used to come to them complaining about her lying to him, about her trying to _control_ him. He used to push back, not enough to spark anything, but enough to let her know he wasn’t her property. Richie’s been there for some of those moments. He’s also been there for the many, many other moments: the ones where Eddie just gave a nod and a smile and a, “Yes, mommy,” and let her call the shots.

Now, Eddie doesn’t complain anymore. He doesn’t say much of anything when he comes crawling through one of their windows late at night, or when he spends entire days hiding in the clubhouse. He doesn’t need to say anything, though. They can see the problem. They know what’s wrong.

She’s gone from leaving the occasional bruise (marks from her fingers on the nape of his neck; encircling his arm; an echo of a reprimand blooming on his jawline), to scratches from ill-maintained nails, and lately, cuts and _burns,_ and all manner of other little injuries that alone can be explained away but all together like that are clearly intentional.

Richie feels like a host to a parasite, a seething mass that wants nothing more than to tear into her, give Sonia her comeuppance. When he was younger, when he was first aware of these desires, he’d thought there was something sick in him.

He sees now that what he craves is _just._ It’s righteous. 

Richie’s been stuck like this, just _watching_ from the sidelines, having explored every avenue as far as methods of getting Eddie the fuck out of that house goes. _All_ the Losers have been forced to watch this unfold, sneaking Eddie out at night to keep him safe at their houses, begging their parents to _help them help him,_ trying to make the cops in Derry see the problem when, as with everything, it seems almost invisible to them. Eddie’s spent more time in the past year harboured at Richie’s house like a goddamn refugee than he has in his _own_ house, where his mother waits with a sharp temper and thin patience.

 _They’re going to run away,_ they keep saying. All of them. The seven of them. They’re going to scrape together enough money working late-night shifts at The Aladdin and bagging groceries at the A&P and squandering summer afternoons as library assistants, shelving books and searching up terms and helping kids with book reports for _pennies._

And one day, they’re going to load all their crap into Mike’s truck and Ben’s station wagon and get the fuck out of Dodge. 

They’re never going to look back, they keep telling themselves, even though the scars on their hands say otherwise.

It’s a stupid dream, and a naive one, and here they are, all stuck in Derry just the same, mere months away from graduating high school, and Eddie is no better off for their efforts.

“Just a couple months,” Richie keeps telling him. “We’re gonna get out of here. Just a couple more months.” He says it with a pressure in his chest so dark it’s terrifying, and his fingers itch to drain the life out of the monster who’s done this to Eddie. 

He’s done it once before, after all. Killed someone (some _thing)_ for endangering Eddie.

They’ll leave _together._ All of them. Go to college in the same city. They’ll stick together as well as they can because this darkness Derry planted inside of them is uniquely their own. 

Because no one else will ever understand them like they understand each other. 

“I don’t know if I can _do_ a couple more months,” Eddie tells him one night, when he’s used the spare key Richie had made for him to slip into the house well past midnight. Richie can’t see any marks on him but he knows they’re there, hidden under his clothes or otherwise invisible in the darkness of the room. “I don’t--” Richie’s hand on his back stills when he cuts himself off with a half-formed sob. “I think she’s giving me something.”

Richie thinks to ask him to elaborate. Realizes he’s not sure how well he can control himself if Eddie _does._ It’s been getting harder. He’s been picking more fights at school. He’s argued with his parents more in the past six months than ever before in his life (they’re beginning to suspect something is wrong with him, five years too late). He’s been fantasizing about the sensation of a blade sliding through flesh. Of the sight and smell of warm red blood spilling over his hands.

Over _Eddie’s_ hands, better yet. He’s already jerked off to that mental image twice today alone. The physical evidence of Eddie remembering how to take a stand, of him fighting for his own freedom. Fighting _back._ Eddie’s always been better than the rest of them when it comes to fighting back.

But Eddie has decided it’s finally time to talk, three months out from freedom, and Richie knows there’s no coming back from this. He’s resisted long enough. The threat of jail time isn’t enough to deter him at this point, and by now he’s confident Eddie won’t reject him for his proposal, because Eddie can barely stop himself from crying and he’s wrapped around Richie like he’ll sink if he lets go, and he’s _convinced_ nothing he does at this point can make Eddie hate him. 

“She tried to make me take the placebos again, and I told her I wouldn’t. But I don’t think…” He trails off and wipes at his nose with his sleeve, still fighting the tears. “Richie, I don’t think it was just placebos. I think she’s been putting things in my food, or… or my drinks, I dunno. Stuff that makes me sick, and sometimes stuff that makes me fall asleep. I don’t want-- I _can’t_ keep living with her. She’s going to hurt me.”

_She does._

She _does_ hurt him. Richie throws caution to the wayside when that tar-like anger boils up in his chest. He’s burning inside, and it must show in his eyes, because Eddie puts a hand to his cheek and says, “Richie?” all anxious and taut, and Richie reaches up to hold it in place.

He’s going to do what he should have done a long time ago, consequences be damned.

Sometimes, when Henry Bowers used to drive his fist against Eddie’s face, or push him into the mud, and call him names that made Eddie’s face burn and his eyes water, Richie would get this urge to push back, push _harder;_ make Bowers wish he’d never fucking _thought_ about hurting Eddie. 

He feels that way about all his friends, of course.

It’s just different with Eddie. And Richie had wanted so bad to make Bowers afraid to go near them. Afraid to go near Eddie. He can’t stand to see Eddie hurt. It makes something razor-sharp and monstrous rear up inside him. Makes that heavy blackness blinding and suffocating. Makes him want to bite down and not let go. He’s having trouble separating how he feels _now,_ after _that summer,_ from how it felt back then, but he’s not sure the urge was quite so hard to resist before _It_. 

Did he always want to destroy anyone who dared touch what was his? 

Was it always so difficult to keep the bloodthirst at bay? 

_(Did this monster exist inside him for his whole life, or was it borne of circumstance?)_

He remembers thinking he should hurt Bowers back -- hurt all his asshole cronies. He’s not sure he remembers wanting to _gut_ them. Or wanting to loop nooses around their necks and watch them struggle for air. Or wishing he could feel the gush of blood when he dragged a knife across their throats (heard their screams of agony cut short).

He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think it matters anymore, and if any part of him is aware that he’s finally succumbing to his own darkness, it’s lost in the tide and forgotten, as he presses his fingers over Eddie’s and watches him shake, tears slipping silently down his cheeks, and asks, “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie says, unhesitating and soft, yet intense in a way that makes Richie wonder if this feeling might be mutual. “You know I do,” he adds, almost reverent, and Richie thinks about kissing him, and about biting down on his lip until it bleeds, and how the only person who should ever be allowed to come _close_ to hurting Eddie should be him, because he knows how to take care of him after.

“I’m gonna help you, I promise. I know how to help. Okay?”

Eddie nods. “Okay,” he agrees, and the tears have all but stopped.

“Can you trust me to help you?” Richie asks, again, just to be sure (because seeing Eddie look at him like that makes him want to _make him his,_ more than he even is now).

And when Eddie nods and says, “Always,” Richie doesn’t kiss him, but he wants to so desperately it _aches._

  
  


Watching Eddie come to school the following morning with bruises ringed around his eyes, lacerations and purple-blue-black handprints disappearing under the sleeves of his sweater, he thinks maybe he’s burning. Thinks maybe he might burn right down to ashes if he doesn’t get this out of his system -- if he doesn’t sink his teeth in and make himself clear: no one lays a fucking hand on Eddie Kaspbrak, and if they have the fucking gall to think they can, they’ll be answering to him.

“What did she do?” he demands, already dragging Eddie out into the courtyard, where they’ll have at least some semblance of privacy. The _‘I’ll kill her’_ rests heavy on his tongue but he swallows it back while he pulls Eddie’s sleeves up to get a better look at his arms and the scratches and cuts gouged into them.

_Kill her kill her he’s going to fucking_ **_kill her_ ** _and it’ll feel_ **_fucking good_ ** _while he does it and he’ll make it slow he’ll make it slow he’ll make her suffer, too--_

“We had an argument,” Eddie says, and he’s so calm, how the fuck is he so _calm?_ It’s like he’s gone all blank behind his eyes and his expression is carefully neutral and Richie could _scream._ He should be crying. He should be _livid._ Richie’s been pissed about this every day of his life for _years_ and this is fucking _it._ This is the last fucking straw. He’s going to pull out her fingernails one by one and he’s going to split her massive stomach right down the middle so her guts spill out, and he’s going to make Eddie watch -- make Eddie _help_ \-- so he can _know_ how well Richie will protect him when he needs it.

What’s a couple months, anyway? They can just skip town and, hell, he doesn’t know… train-hop or something. Do odd jobs for cash and squat in houses and _anything_ he needs to do to keep Eddie safe and to keep them from being caught, if there’s any risk of it.

The anger -- something he _swears_ used to be foreign to him -- burns low in the back of his throat still. “That’s _not_ how a fucking argument works.”

“Richie--” Eddie tries, but Richie stops him there, because he doesn’t want Eddie to try to talk him out of this. He doesn’t _want_ to back down and he’s got this simmering rage _years_ in the making that’s curling into his fingertips and is making him see red, and _was_ he ever a pacifist, after all? He remembers something about anti-war sentiments when they were just entering their preteens, and _disgust_ at the idea of ever hurting another person beyond self-defense, and how he’d never, ever want to let this town corrupt him the way it seems to corrupt _everyone._

_“Eddie,_ you said you trust me. I’m gonna get you out of there and I need you to trust me.” He wants to sound reassuring but mostly he sounds _animal,_ voice low and growling, and his hand on Eddie’s arm holds perhaps too tight.

“You _can’t,_ Rich. We already _tried._ There’s nothing else we can do, right?” But he leaves it there with something _else_ to be said, and Richie _knows_ the light in his eyes because it’s familiar to him -- because he wants the same things Eddie must want. _‘I don’t know if I can_ **_do_ ** _a couple more months,’_ Eddie had said, and Richie isn’t going to let him. None of them will. 

(He can all but guarantee, if he asks the rest of the Losers, they’ll support him in _anything_ he says needs to be done. They’ll do _anything_ for Eddie, even let that corruption from Derry -- from _It_ \-- consume them altogether.)

“Sure there is,” he says, and he can see behind Eddie’s eyes that the careful blankness conceals something else entirely, and there’s familiarity in the _hunger._ “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right Eds?” 

It feels hollow when he smiles, but Eddie reflects it all the same, and then Eddie’s fingers are curling around his wrist, grabbing too harshly, as he says, “Yeah, Richie. There is.”

_Will you help me the way I_ **_want?_ ** the simple touch asks, and Richie squeezes back.

  
  
  


There are sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Sleeping pills Sonia keeps slipping to Eddie to keep him docile, or keep him out of her way, or sometimes just to keep him trapped at home -- he can’t go gallivanting with those _horrid_ friends of his if he’s too weak to move, or out cold on the nearest flat surface. 

Richie feels like he’s swallowed fire when Eddie tells him this, but he keeps himself calm, because he doesn’t want to seem impulsive. He doesn’t want Eddie to think he’s being rash, or to second-guess any of their plans.

None of this is impulsive. This is every wrongdoing on her part left to fester for _years_ until the wound burst. Now all the pus is pouring out, and she’s in a for a fucking _shock,_ isn’t she?

“You don’t want to give her too much, okay?” Richie’s explaining, one arm draped across Eddie’s shoulders to draw him in closer so their conversation can remain quiet. The other hand brings a cigarette to his mouth, and when he presses his lips to Eddie’s ear again, smoke curls over his skin and into his hair as he exhales. “Too much is gonna kill her dead.”

Eddie swallows audibly, but there’s a hardness to his expression and Richie doesn’t miss the tiny shudder that rattles through him. “Isn’t that… what we _want?”_ he asks, eyes darting around the quarry. The rest of the Losers are scattered around them, not paying them much mind, and not for the first time today Richie considers letting them in on his scheming. 

But he thinks he’d like to keep this for just him and Eddie.

Just this one, at least. 

“Of course that’s what we want.” He’s grinning, now, manic, teeth nearly grazing Eddie’s ear where he’s still pressed much too close. “But not like that,” --part of him wants to call Eddie _doll_ in the moment, as he so often thinks about alone in his room; those pretty eyes staring up at him under the fierceness of a blush, but no protest, no opposition to the pet names-- “That’s too good for her.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Eddie asks, but he doesn’t seem nervous. No, he’s _excited._ There’s a glow in his cheeks and a smile fighting to make an appearance and Richie couldn’t possibly be more in love with him than he is in this moment. He’s got half a mind to just stake a claim here and now, but there’s a plan to devise and a sweet darling boy to make happy, first.

Then he can take whatever he wants.

Richie hums and blows a smoke ring at the sky, well aware that Eddie is watching him expectantly, and pretends to deliberate for several long moments. “Can I make it a nice surprise for you?”

There’s no, _“You know I hate surprises.”_ Eddie loses the fight with that little smile and he’s nodding as he says, “Yeah, alright,” even though the circumstances should be _horrible,_ should be dragging them down, not lifting them up, and Richie’s arm around his shoulder slips to his waist to draw him in closer. To hold onto him tighter. 

It’s going to be the best fucking surprise Eddie ever gets, he bets, already imagining how it will feel to press the handle of the biggest knife he can get hold of into Eddie’s hands. The smell of blood thick in the air. He thinks about kissing Eddie _then,_ and how _right_ it would be, and if ever there will be a time to take him for himself, it will be tonight.

_Tonight._

Richie’s going to make everything right in the world again, and he’s going to do it just for Eddie, who he loves so much it _hurts,_ and he’s going to do it _tonight._

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, and there’s something playful about it, maybe just in the way he leaves the cigarette hanging between his lips to reach up and ruffle Eddie’s hair while Eddie swats at his hand and tries to tell him off. It comes out _sounding_ playful, despite the whole rest of the situation, but he’s never been more serious about anything in his life. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

Eddie’s got both his wrists clasped in his hands as he makes a valiant attempt to protect his hair from Richie, but he doesn’t have the foresight to keep those prodding fingers out of range of his cheeks, so when he bites back, “I’m not _worried,”_ with a huge grin splitting his face, eyes bright with laughter, Richie _pinches._ The smile doesn’t falter at all. 

“Course you aren’t, cutie. I’m, like, certifiably a genius. Nothing can go wrong in my presence.”

“Oh, god,” says Eddie, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I _should_ worry.”

He doesn’t. Richie _knows_ he doesn’t.

If anything, he seems more free -- more relaxed -- than ever, as the rest of the Losers finally breach their little bubble to drag them into a game of Chicken. When he laughs it’s _grand._ It carries out across the quarry, over the disturbed surface of the water, as Stan slams his hands into his chest in an attempt to knock him off Mike’s shoulders, and then he’s going down, taking Mike with him.

They can all see the marks. The bruises and the cuts and the burns. Richie watched the _looks_ they all gave each other when they first jumped into the water. The way their eyes all turned to him, in the end. They _want,_ too. They want to get rid of the problem. That burning is in them, too. 

This burden, however, he won’t share. He needs to do this for Eddie if only to _prove_ he’s the right one to take care of him. 

He catches Eddie as they’re all drying off and dressing, dragging him behind the scraggly mulberry tree and twisting his fingers into his damp hair. He’s resisting the urge to kiss him -- at the _very least,_ kiss him -- with all his might (he’s yet to prove his worth, after all) but even then he still presses a fierce kiss to Eddie’s forehead before drawing him into an embrace. There’s a fading bruise stretched across his shoulder and upper back that sits just within Richie’s peripheral vision, a sickly yellow-green blend, and he breathes deep and thinks to himself **_tonight_ ** and some -- _some_ \-- of the tension leaks out of his body. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he promises, maybe for the millionth time, and feels Eddie’s smile pressed to his bare collarbone. 

“I know,” he says, and Richie couldn’t possibly be more in love with him, he thinks.

  
  
  
  


Richie swears his heart swells up ten sizes bigger in his chest when the back door opens and Eddie’s head peeks out. His eyes are _huge_ and Richie’s hands find his pale cheek the second he’s stepped up onto the back porch to join him, because he _has_ to remind him that he’s “Cute, Eds! So cute!”

Even when he looks nervous -- bordering on _terrified_ \-- he’s irresistibly cute. 

More than that, though, Richie’s been hiding out back here for the better part of an hour, imagining how gorgeous he’ll be covered in blood. How _perfect_ he’ll be with a knife clasped in his hands, delivering vengeance upon someone who has done nothing but _wrong_ him. 

How amazing he is for _wanting_ this. For taking a stand. For _finally_ asserting himself again.

“C’mon,” Eddie says, and some of the colour has returned to his face. He smiles as he intertwines their fingers and pulls Richie into the house, screen door clicking shut behind them. 

“I’m proud of you,” says Richie, without quite meaning to. It’s _true,_ and the words just kind of jump from his tongue without his permission as Sonia, prone and snoring stretched out on her La-Z-Boy, comes into view. The tea she was drinking is spilled across her lap, the delicate porcelain cup in pieces on the carpet, and Richie has to reiterate, “I mean it, Eds. I’m proud. You’re amazing.”

Eddie’s fully blushing as Richie slips his old, ratty knapsack off his shoulders and dumps out several lengths of rope in varying sizes and conditions. He’s been careful, in the process of planning something like this, to avoid getting caught, and to avoid putting himself in a situation where it’s even a possibility. He’s scrounged these from various places over the past few days. Junk piles in the corners of the garage, an old jury-rigged “leash” from the Mulligans’ backyard, still hanging off the dilapidated dog house even though poor old Frankie died years ago. The dump, namely. The dump’s a treasure-trove of goodies if you aren’t afraid of a little lockjaw, after all. 

“I don’t think what we’re doing counts as ‘amazing,’ Rich.”

“Nah,” Richie shakes his head and takes Eddie’s hand in his again, to press a weathered cord of polyprop rope against the palm. “It definitely is. You’re tough as shit, Eddie. I don’t tell you that often enough, but it’s true, and I don’t think it’s ever going to be truer than right now.”

Eddie turns those wide eyes to Sonia as she snuffles loudly in her drug-induced sleep, and Richie’s fingers _itch._ He could put his hands around her throat right now, get it over with while Eddie watches and _thanks him,_ but that isn’t what she fucking _deserves._

She’s going to _feel it._ She’s going to look her good, obedient little son in the eye while he carves her up like the fat fucking Thanksgiving turkey she is, and she’s going to cry and beg and they aren’t going to show her any mercy.

_Reap what you fucking sow, bitch._

Much more gently than his state of mind should even allow, he curls Eddie’s shaking fingers over the rope and smiles at him. “She won’t hurt you anymore,” he assures, and that, if nothing else, nudges him into action. 

Eddie loops the rope under the footrest she has propped up and then over her shins, swings it back around and repeats, and with a satisfied little nod, Richie retreats to the kitchen.

The knife block sits tucked neatly in the corner, blocked in on one side by the toaster and the other by the dishrack. It’s all familiar. Richie’s spent many long days and nights in this house, during rain storms in the summer and cold spells in the winter. Not so much anymore -- not since they all started growing up and Sonia began to shorten the leash she keeps Eddie on, and to snap and bellow when any of them came to the door, and she’d turned Eddie into some puppet who would meekly agree with anything she said in his presence. 

Eddie stopped defending them after a while.

Richie wraps his hand in the tea towel hanging from the stove and pulls the knives out of the block one by one, until he’s sure he’s found the _right_ one for the job: a chef’s knife, not too awkward to handle, good for anything they’ll need. 

He puts all the others back in their places, meticulous, and hangs the tea towel exactly where he found it. There’s a weary sort of peace that carries him through the motions. Something weighted with the understanding that he’s _so close_ to achieving a kind of freedom he doesn’t think he’s ever known. Something _Eddie_ has never known, certainly.

“How’s this?” he asks once he’s back in the living room, watching Eddie tie knots in the ropes with his eyebrows knitted together, little pink tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. He glances up at Richie and his jaw goes slack. 

“Oh,” he says, articulately, and there’s a little _pinch_ in his expression that Richie recognizes easily as anxiety. “Um…”

Richie laughs watching him fumble with the rope a bit, a small part of him hoping it’s contagious enough to make some of Eddie’s nerves dissipate. “Don’t be scared,” he teases, “it’s not for you.” And when he winks, there’s a ghost of a smile on Eddie’s face, and he says in a voice free from tremors, “Can you come check these? I dunno if they’ll hold.”

“Hey, Stan’s the Boy Scout, not me,” Richie retorts, but he helps Eddie fix the knots anyway, pulling the ropes taut across Sonia’s stomach and chest, then again over her shins and thighs, and he thinks maybe too proudly, _Yeah, she isn’t fucking going anywhere._

Eddie’s _quiet_ while they work, even as Richie’s cracking jokes and calling him nicknames he pretends to hate and putting his hands all over him to tease him; pinching his cheeks and poking his sides and giving his hair a little tug when he stops to stare at his shitbag mother, who’s drooling all down the side of her face as she snores away in her recliner, oblivious. It’s not _unheard of_ for Eddie to be quiet, just as it’s not unheard of for Stan to Get Off A Good One. 

But it doesn’t take an expert to know what’s going through his head, so Richie takes him by the hand and leads him over to the couch, sitting him down right in front of where he set the knife on the coffee table. Eddie’s staring at it even as Richie sits beside him.

What he expects, when Eddie finally opens his mouth to speak, is for him to try to call off this whole thing. He knows it’s what Eddie _wants,_ just as much as any of them, but he also knows parent-child relationships are complex and convoluted and all kinds of bullshit, and that for as much as Eddie fucking despises this woman, she’s still his _mother,_ in some sense of the word. It’s gotta be hard to kill your own mother, even if she does hurt you and drug you and beat you down every fucking day of your life.

It takes _guts._

And if Eddie Kaspbrak’s got anything going for him, it’s an unwavering courage the likes of which Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever see again in his lifetime. 

So what he expects isn’t what he gets. It’s: “You’re going to… _help,_ right?” as he licks his lips and his eyes dart only briefly from the knife to Richie, then back again.

“Course. I’m right here with you, Eds. You and me. Dynamic duo.”

“Bonnie and Clyde?” Eddie suggests, almost-tremulously, almost-smiling.

“Only if I get to be Bonnie.”

Eddie looks at him, then, _properly,_ turning his whole body towards Richie while the almost-smile falters, and says, “Can I tell you? Before it’s done, can I tell you why?”

“You don’t have to, Eds. I know most of it.” He _tries_ to be reassuring, putting a hand on Eddie’s knee and squeezing like he’s seen his dad do with his mom when she’s upset. Tries to let him know it’s _fine_ and he doesn’t have to force himself into anything. Doesn’t have to make himself relive memories he probably just wants to forget. 

“It’s important, Richie,” Eddie insists, as his hand covers Richie’s on his leg. “You should know before we go any further with this.”

“Well, what else is there that I don’t know? Look at yourself, Eddie. You don’t even have to _tell_ anyone what happened.” Maybe that comes out too harsh. Maybe the acknowledgement that he’s scarred to hell and back might set something off. Richie doesn’t think it through, because he’s got that burning sensation building in his chest again as he tries to imagine what else Sonia could have possibly done to hurt this perfect being, and what the fuck could have _possessed_ her to do any of that in the first place.

But he isn’t deterred, nor is he offended. He just fixes Richie with this steely expression, and the only giveaway that he might be _scared_ is in a tiny, nervous wobble of his lower lip as he says, with a sharp confidence that’s clearly masking something, “Sometimes she hurt me because of you.”

Richie has to turn that over in his head a few times, and he’ll be honest, he is not a fan of the fucking _ravenous_ anger that explodes in his gut at the idea.

“Because she… she knows how I feel about you, and she _hates_ me for it, and…” Eddie sighs, but he looks to be set in stone. There isn’t a single tear in those eyes. Just a sombre resignation. “It’s not your fault, obviously. That’s not why I’m telling you. I just want you to know that I… I fucking _hate_ her for it. But I wouldn’t blame you. I could never. And I could never hate you either, because I think I’m too busy loving you.”

Richie doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but there’s a part of him that’s ready to snatch up that knife and plunge it right into her heart, _right now,_ but _no--_ not yet. _Soon._

He’d tell her every single fucking reason she deserves it while he cut her to pieces for Eddie.

And there’s that elated, but not entirely surprised, part that wants to go all soft and gooey at Eddie finally saying something like that out loud to him, taking the initiative. Extending the offering to Richie when they both already know he’s going to take it, and do so with enthusiasm.

“I just wish she’d love me,” Eddie says, much more softly, dull all around the edges. He stares somewhere past Richie, out the yellowed windows overlooking the street, maybe somewhere towards the setting sun. “But she doesn’t. So why the fuck should I love her?”

“You shouldn’t,” Richie says plainly, even though something inside him is aching so terribly he worries he might just end up crying, himself. He’s not sure he even has the capacity for it, right now, and there’s more anger and pent-up aggression simmering under his skin than genuine sadness, but for Eddie, he just might. “She’s either going to accept you for who you are, and treat you how you deserve to be treated, or she’s going to get what’s coming to her. And we already know she isn’t looking to change any time soon.”

Eddie’s nodding along, that dullness still brimming in his eyes, turning them a bleak black. Richie thinks, fuck it, because it doesn’t need to wait anymore if they’re _this close_ to the end. If Richie’s already come halfway to proving his worth just by being here and bringing Eddie a weapon and sitting on this couch with their hands intertwined, Sonia Kaspbrak out cold on the recliner with no clue about the fate awaiting her. He reaches up to turn Eddie’s face towards his, pull him into a kiss, but Eddie flinches back violently as Richie’s hand nears his face, and they both freeze.

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs, gaze fixed somewhere over Richie’s shoulder, as his chest starts to stutter under the force of his rapid breathing, and Richie fucking hates Sonia, he _fucking hates her, how fucking dare she do this to Eddie, how_ **_dare_ ** _she make him into this shell of the brave and brash boy he grew up with._

“You don’t have to be, baby,” he insists. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” He goes slower this time, even though there’s red creeping into the edges of his vision as the voices inside his head snap and snarl and demand retribution. Stops before he’s too close, Eddie’s eyes tracking his movements as he brings himself down from the mounting panic and focuses back on the real world again. “Okay?”

Eddie gives him a smile that makes his heart pound, beautiful even when stress has made him sickly pale and bruises stand out starkly around his eyes, and he’s moving forward, into _Richie’s_ space, as he tells him once again: “I trust you. I do. You can do anything. It’s okay.” But Eddie kisses him first, anyway, and Eddie’s fingers are twisting into his hair before he can react, and Richie would die for him. He would.

He’d _kill_ for him, for sure, but maybe one day he’ll get a chance to prove to Eddie that he’d lay down his own life to keep him safe and happy, too. 

Eddie’s trying to sneak his tongue between Richie’s lips, and Richie is happily obliging (he can’t say he hasn’t spent many a night fantasizing about doing exactly this, and then _more)_. He lets Eddie lick into his mouth, heart racing, hands grabbing, dragging him in closer. As close as possible

(he’ll never want anything more than he wants Eddie to be close to him)

dropping an arm around his waist to hold him in place.

Eddie, the little bastard, yanks on Richie’s hair and then has the audacity to _giggle_ when he chokes out a moan, definitely firming up in his jeans just from the combined sensation of Eddie’s tongue in his mouth and _that,_ so Richie pinches him right on the hip and makes him yelp. “Don’t be a shit,” he chastises, while Eddie tries to fake-pout at him through the smile he can’t seem to hold back. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long,” Eddie tells him, all sincerity behind the smile, looking now less exhausted than before, as if kissing Richie had revitalized him. 

“What, pull my fucking hair? You sultry little--”

“No, kiss you, jackass.”

Eddie shoves at his shoulder but Richie doesn’t go anywhere, just wraps an arm around him again to draw him in until he’s practically sitting on his lap _(fucking ideal)_ and their faces are mere inches apart. “Why didn’t you, then?”

At this, the smile loses some of its lustre. “She would have killed me, Rich. For real. Like, dead-in-a-ditch, can’t-prove-it-was-her, buried-the-murder-weapon _killed_ me.”

Richie could vomit just at the thought, and his desire to paint the walls with Sonia’s blood increases a hundred-fold. While he’s sure that shows in his eyes, he says playfully, “Wow, I can’t believe you somehow manage to be the most melodramatic bitch in our friend group when Bill exists.”

“Yeah, nice try. That’ll always be _you._ Or didn’t you notice you’re, like, the world’s biggest drama queen?”

Richie clutches at imaginary pearls, which sets Eddie giggling more before he’s even spoken, and says, “Ex-cah- _yoose_ me, but I ain’t nevah had a- _one_ emotion in my whole damn life! I ain’t _nevah_ expressed so much as a- _one_ feeling, doll, and you can place your bets on that one.”

“If you weren’t a dramatic bitch, you wouldn’t be _you,_ y’know?” Eddie says, painfully fond, and then he’s kissing Richie again, and Richie’s gonna die a happy man, he sure fucking is. He’s gonna die locking lips with Eddie because his heart is going to beat right out of his chest, and that’s perfectly fine, he thinks. 

Eddie’s going to belong to him entirely after this, he’ll make damn sure of it, and then he won’t want for anything else in life. 

Richie’s just curling his fingers around the back of Eddie’s neck when Sonia snorts loudly behind them and groans, a sure sign that consciousness is returning to her. They break apart and Eddie’s eyes bore into Richie’s for the briefest of moments before he’s up off the couch -- off Richie’s lap -- and drawing the curtains closed to block the view from the street.

Richie retrieves, from his backpack, a wadded up pair of socks from somewhere in the mess on his bedroom floor, and a strip of cloth he snagged off a t-shirt down at the dump while he was digging around for rope. If she tries to scream (and surely she will) she won’t get much of an opportunity, though Richie would just _love_ to hear her beg and plead and sob, and to ask Eddie for his forgiveness, which she’d never be able to earn in a million lifetimes. 

“Get the knife,” he directs him, when Eddie starts crossing the room towards him, where he stands over Sonia, who’s stirring and mumbling as she wakes up from her unexpected nap. 

That nervous jitter rushes through his body, Richie can see it from here, and he bites down on his lip hard enough to turn it white. “Richie, I’m--”

_“Eddie,_ pick up the knife, baby,” he insists again, though this time with more conviction -- an authoritative timbre to it -- and Eddie snaps to attention, hand leaping out to grab it.

“I don’t know if I can--”

“You can,” he assures. “I know you can. C’mon. Come here.” He beckons Eddie to his side, and Eddie comes to him holding the oversized knife out in front of him like a holy object, or otherwise like a bomb he’s afraid to set off, so Richie reminds him tenderly, lips pressed too close to his ear, as they often are: “She’s a terrible mother, Eds. She doesn’t love you. She’ll never love you like I do, you know that? I wish I could explain how much I love you, so you could understand how it makes me feel like I’m dying inside sometimes.”

Eddie stumbles over his vowels for a few seconds, leaning into the arm that’s slung over his shoulders, before managing a soft and shaking, “I love you, too, Richie. More than I know how to explain, too.”

“She doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know,” Eddie says after a long silence. He’s staring Sonia down with an uncharacteristic coldness in his gaze. “I know she doesn’t.”

She stirs again. Her eyelids flutter. She makes a choked sound, something between a groan and a gasp, as her arms jerk against the ropes.

“Mom?” Eddie says, strained, and Richie is forced to watch as all that hatred starts to drain away all over again, and apprehension fills the spaces it leaves behind.

“No,” he snaps. “Hey. _Hey._ Look at me.” He pushes into Eddie’s space, placing himself between him and Sonia, so Eddie doesn’t have a _choice_ but to look at him. His hands close around Eddie’s wrists to hold him in place. He’s shaking, only slightly, but enough for Richie to feel it.

“I--” he tries, but Richie talks over him.

“I love you, Eddie. I _love_ you. That’s more than she’s ever done for you. If we don’t take care of this _now,_ she’ll never let you go. She’s only ever gonna _hurt_ you, baby. I can’t let her do that. Okay? _We_ can’t let her do that.”

The chair creaks loudly behind him. “Eddie…” Sonia says, but it comes out slurred -- muffled by the gag, something more like _“Eh-hee.”_ When Richie looks over his shoulder she’s blinking away the haze of the drugs. She catches sight of him and surprise registers, then anger, and she makes as if to stand, only to be stopped by her restraints. Whatever she tries to shout at them is rendered incoherent.

“Well, good morning, Mrs. K. How nice of you join us,” Richie says bitterly. He can hear Eddie’s breath hitch.

She says something else he can’t quite make out, save for a couple of naughty words she’d wash Eddie’s mouth out with soap for if she ever caught him using them. 

“I’m sure you know exactly why you’re here, but maybe it’s best if we let Eddie explain, huh?”

And Eddie, poor thing, has gone sickly pale when Richie turns to him again, raising a slow, tentative hand to his cheek while Eddie watches the movement avidly. “I would never hurt you, Eds,” he says, much quieter; wholly sincere. “I’m gonna take care of you forever, okay? I’m gonna take better care of you than she _ever_ could.”

Eddie nods. His little pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I know,” he says, in less than a whisper. His eyes bore into Richie’s, and the intensity of his gaze sends a thrill up Richie’s spine. Eddie _understands_ him, better than he thinks anyone ever will. Eddie is on his side, here. He’s afraid, as anyone in his position would be, but he’s on Richie’s side, and Richie can see it in the vicious affection reflected in his eyes as he stares up at him. “I love you.”

Richie presses a fierce kiss to his forehead and steps aside to let Sonia see him. She growls out another string of incomprehensible expletives and fights against the ropes so fiercely the chair actually wobbles side-to-side. 

“Mom, I’m--” Eddie starts to say, knuckles white around the knife handle. He sucks in a breath, watching her struggle to free herself, anger burning in her beady eyes. His gaze darts to Richie, then down to his own forearms, cut and bruised as they are, and Richie can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. “I’m _not_ sorry. I’m _not.”_

Sonia leans forward as much as she can in the chair, eyes wet with tears, forehead glossy with sweat, cheeks red and splotchy, and she spits something impossible to understand from behind the gag. 

“Why the fuck _should_ I be sorry? I mean, all you’ve ever done is make me miserable, and I _know_ you do it on purpose.” The faint tremor fades from his voice and he matches her level of vitriol as he bends down closer to her. His free hand rests over her throat but he doesn’t seem to apply much pressure. “Do you have any idea how that _feels?”_

Sonia sobs -- actually _sobs_ \-- and Eddie draws back from her, disgust etched into his face. Delight sears through all of Richie’s nerve endings.

“You’re a terrible fucking mother, you know that? All you needed to do was love me, and you couldn’t even manage that.”

There’s a barely recognizable _“please”_ from behind the gag, and Eddie turns, frowning, to Richie. Richie can’t help but smile at him, his giddiness too much to keep contained. He sidles up to him again and slings an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. Sonia’s eyes narrow at him and there’s a very clear _“Fuck you”_ from her. 

“You’re damn right, Eds. If she deserved you at all, she’d know that already.” He winks at Sonia, who seems to be edging closer and closer to a full fit of rage with each passing second. “But she doesn’t deserve you, right?”

“Right,” Eddie says, voice steely.

“You wanna show her how wrong she was?”

Eddie nods, but doesn’t make any further move. Richie gives him a second before he steps behind him and wraps both arms around him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder so he can better watch the hatred simmering in Sonia’s gaze. “Eds? You wanna show her, or what?”

“I…” Eddie rests a hand on Richie’s forearm where it crosses over his stomach, and he leans back against him. “Yeah, of course. I do.”

“What do you wanna start with, baby? Hm? You wanna cut her? Strangle her?”

One of Eddie’s hands leaps to his throat, and he shudders. “I don’t wanna kill her like that, Richie. I just want her to know how it feels.”

Hearing that makes Richie _want_ to choke the life out of her, but he forces a smile as he presses his cheek briefly against Eddie’s. “Sure thing, doll. We’ll stop when we need to, alright?”

Eddie nods, so Richie takes him by the wrists and pushes him forward, setting Eddie’s free hand against his mother’s throat. She twists away from the grip but Eddie follows even without Richie’s guidance until he’s got her, squealing, in his grasp. One of Richie’s hands presses down over his own, dwarfing it, covering the rest of Sonia’s throat, and a sharp grin twists at his mouth as he squeezes harder, and _harder,_ until the only sounds Sonia can make are desperate little wheezing gasps. 

“Okay, you can stop now,” Richie tells him, releasing the pressure he’s holding over Eddie’s hand. But Eddie doesn’t let go. Richie finds himself a little lost admiring the darkness in his expression as his mother struggles for air. It’s several long seconds before he reminds Eddie, a little more sternly, that he should let go. “You don’t wanna kill her like _this,_ baby. She deserves so much worse, doesn’t she?”

Eddie lets Richie pry his fingers off of her throat. “Yeah,” he hisses, “she does.”

And Richie’s so proud of him, he truly is, and he can’t help but turn Eddie’s face to kiss him properly before he tells him that again. 

Sonia starts pitching a fit the second she’s able to breathe properly again, and Richie can hear her insulting him without needing to make out the details, but for some fucking reason Eddie reaches out to pull Richie’s dirty socks out of her mouth. She fumbles for a moment with the shock of being able to speak properly again, and Eddie beats her to it, anyway.

“Apologize to me,” he demands, coldly, and Richie is so very much in love. 

“You filthy fucking queer,” Sonia spits at Richie. “How dare you corrupt my--”

Eddie slaps her. Eddie fucking _slaps_ her, full-force, right across the cheek, snapping her head to the side, and did Richie mention he’s in love with this boy? He goes a little weak in the knees. “I told you to fucking _apologize,_ Sonia, not make things worse for yourself.”

She changes her tune real fuckin’ quick, and when she turns to face them again, her eyes shine with tears and her bottom lip wobbles. “Eddie, why would you do that to me? You’re my baby, you aren’t supposed to hurt your mommy.”

Eddie inhales sharply beside him. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“Let me go, Eddie. I’ll pretend none of this happened. I’ll make sure _he_ goes to prison and you never have to worry about him making you do bad things again, okay? You don’t want to hurt your mommy, right? Of course you--”

Eddie stuffs the gag back in her mouth. He’s wriggled out of Richie’s grip and pressed himself right into her personal space, and Richie watches his nostrils flare as he plants his hands on the armrests of her chair and leans his face close against hers. “All I want is a fucking apology, _Sonia._ I don’t want you to pretend you’re in the right. I don’t want you to pretend you’re my _mother._ And I especially don’t want you to pretend Richie has to _make_ me do any of this.”

He stands up again, turning that dark look on Richie, and Richie sees a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Eddie understands him. Maybe he needed some extra encouragement, but that blackness is staining his soul just as much as any of the rest of them, and it seems Richie’s finally coaxed it out to play. When Eddie smiles at him, Richie sees the hunger in it. No more fear, no more hesitation, just the ravenous desire for revenge, and the power-drunkenness that can be borne only from the position they find themselves in, cradling someone’s life in their vengeful hands.

“I only want you to apologize for hurting me. That’s all.” Eddie clicks his tongue, shakes his head, and adjusts his grip on the knife. “And you can’t even do that.”

Now when Eddie looks at him, it’s inviting. Dark, still, but Richie’s drawn towards him. “Yeah, baby?” he asks, running his fingers down Eddie’s arm.

“With me?” Eddie says, and it’s all he _needs_ to say. Richie stands behind him again, back-to-chest, one arm around Eddie's waist and the other guiding the hand holding the knife, raising it and pointing it towards Sonia.

“How do you wanna do this?”

“I want her to suffer a little bit first.”

“Atta boy,” Richie says, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of Eddie’s throat, just below his jaw. “In the stomach?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna cut her open?”

Eddie shivers against him. His throat clicks as he swallows. “Please?”

“I can’t wait to see you in hell, Mrs. K. I hope you get what’s coming to you,” Richie says cheerily, as Eddie takes a few deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Richie swears he can feel his heartbeat thrumming between them. “I hope you really fucking suffer, and I hope it lasts for all of eternity, and I hope you remember that if you weren’t such a horrible fucking bitch, maybe you’d be suffering just a tiny bit less. You’d still be in hell, though,” he adds, decisively, with an incredibly fake smile that feels somehow incredibly real. “You’d definitely still be in hell, anyway.”

Sonia’s shaking her head, scraping the sagging skin of her arms raw as she tries to worm her way out of the ropes, and she’s _pleading_ with them, of all things. As if she thinks she deserves to be listened to, after all she’s done to Eddie. As if she’d ever be able to make up for it, in this lifetime or any other, if they just let her live a little longer. Eddie’s name spills, muffled, from her lips, over and over again, and _please please please_ and _no no no,_ even as Eddie thrusts the blade into the soft meat of her stomach, just below her ribs.

She squeals, most of the sound trapped behind the gag, fortunately, and the jerking movements she can’t seem to control only make things worse for her as Eddie drags the knife down, down, past her belly button, carving through layers of fat and muscle and more fat. The squealing turns into screaming, then sobbing, then begging again, and for as much as Eddie is transfixed on the sight of his mother’s stomach splitting open and her organs exposing themselves to the air, Richie is preoccupied with the sight of her blood pouring over their hands where they’re wrapped around the knife and around each other. 

Eddie’s breath comes fast. Richie can feel the rapid rise and fall of his ribs against him, hear him panting in his ear. 

“Mothers aren’t supposed to hurt their children. You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you know that?” Eddie says to his sobbing mother. 

There’s a sick sucking sound when Eddie withdraws the knife, and another gush of blood follows it, spilling over her lap. Richie’s aware he’s probably holding him too tight, too riveted by the ordeal to control himself, and he has to spend several long seconds convincing himself to just _let go._

Eddie’s given in. Completely, he’s let that festering darkness consume him, and Richie needs to give him the reins, because this is for _him._ This is Eddie’s victory.

He unfurls himself from around Eddie and stands aside to observe again.

“Richie didn’t do _anything_ to corrupt me because I was already a _filthy fucking queer,”_ he growls, swinging the knife up over his shoulder and bringing it down into the bleeding mess of her abdomen. The stench of bile mixes suddenly with the thick smell of blood that’s permeating the room now. “And you fucking _know_ that.” A _squelch_ as it’s withdrawn, another as it sinks home again. “And you _hurt_ me.” A spray of blood catches Eddie across the face and he barely flinches. “Because you wanted to _change_ me.” There’s a faint scraping, too, when he moves higher and the blades catches on one of her ribs as it pierces through to her chest cavity.

Richie never would have thought her capable of this much _movement,_ but here she is, writhing and bucking and failing to escape from her own son as he swings at her again. 

“Because you’re a _terrible. Fucking. Mother.”_ He punctuates each word with a swift stab to the chest, and Sonia’s struggling eases significantly until it’s only a faint, desperate twitch in her death throes, but Eddie isn’t deterred. “You did _everything_ wrong. And I’ll _never_ forgive you.” Eddie catches her in the throat with the blade and Richie should probably be less surprised than he is when a veritable geyser of hot blood erupts from the wound, soaking down Eddie’s front and hitting the wallpaper behind him. “And if one of us is going to rot in hell, I promise it’s gonna be you.”

Eddie hocks in the back of his throat and spits on her pale, sweaty, bloody face. She doesn’t react. Richie didn’t expect her to. She is very much dead by now. Her enormous belly resembles something close to ground beef, and the flow of blood draining out onto the carpet has slowed.

Eddie turns abruptly to face him and the knife hits the floor with a dull _thunk._ His enormous eyes stare out at Richie from a spatter of blood like freckles across his cheeks and forehead. More blood drips from his chin, mixed with a string of saliva, and yet more is soaking his clothes and making them cling to his skin.

He’s the most beautiful thing Richie’s ever seen in his life. 

Eddie lifts his red-stained hands towards him and before a word can leave his mouth, Richie’s rushing forward, grabbing Eddie’s face between his hands, smashing their mouths together. Eddie stumbles back a bit on impact, and Richie keeps pushing, pushing, until Eddie’s back hits the wall. Richie tastes the blood on his lips as he licks between them and feels Eddie’s fingernails dig into his sides like he’s trying to hold him in place. 

“Richie,” Eddie pants when Richie draws back for air. The warmth of fresh blood from Eddie’s hands seeps through his shirt as he holds him.

Richie uses his thumb to smear some of the blood spattered across Eddie’s cheek. It stands out sharply against his skin and the dizzying darkness of his eyes. He only hums in acknowledgement as he wipes more blood across his face, painting patterns into it with the tip of his finger.

“I want you to fuck me.” 

And Richie _knows_ that, obviously -- even if he didn’t, the feeling of Eddie fully fucking hard against his thigh would clear that up pretty fucking quick. 

And even if he didn’t already _know,_ that was in the plans, anyway. 

“Well, aren’t you just a twisted little bitch?” he teases, a smile crawling over his face. Eddie’s nose scrunches up the way it always does when he’s about to get indignant, so Richie puts that shit to rest before it can even get started, curling his bloodied fingers into Eddie’s air and forcing his head back. A guttural noise tears its way out of him, and when Richie presses his thigh harder between Eddie’s legs, Eddie grinds down against him. “Did that really turn you on so much? Did it feel _that_ good, baby?” He bends down to suck a hickey high on Eddie’s exposed throat. There’s a salty tang of blood on his tongue as he works over the same spot until he’s satisfied the bruise will be impossible to miss. 

Eddie moans loudly above him until Richie lets up, only to close his teeth over the hickey and bite down. _“Shit,”_ Eddie squeaks. His fingers are definitely going to leave bruises on Richie’s ribs.

“I asked you a question, Eddie.” When Richie forces Eddie’s face back down so he can look him in the eye, Eddie’s gaze drops to his mouth instead and his lips part around a sharp breath as he takes in the blood smeared there. “Did killing that cunt bitch really feel _that_ good? That you can’t even _control_ yourself?”

Eddie nods numbly, frantically -- as much as he can when Richie’s still got a good grip on a handful of his hair, and then chokes out a, “Yeah. Yeah, Richie, it did.”

“Felt powerful, huh?”

“It did,” he says, trying to nod again. 

“What about the blood? You like the blood, baby?” Richie drags the pad of his thumb through a rivulet of blood that’s making its way down Eddie’s throat. “Did you like how it felt to make her bleed?”

“Yeah, Richie.”

“Do you like how it tastes?” Richie asks, as he presses his thumb between Eddie’s lips and teeth, resting it against his tongue. Eddie’s eyelids flutter and a shudder races through him. He sucks on Richie’s finger, tongue working over it, and Richie’s almost too mesmerized to remove it even when he knows the blood’s gone. But he does, because he needs both hands to get a good grip on Eddie’s thighs, so he can lift him up higher against the wall, hook his legs around Richie’s waist to press their--

_“Wait,”_ Eddie says just as Richie’s lifting him. “Wait, Richie. Not here.”

“What, you don’t want _mommy_ to see?” Richie taunts, glancing over his shoulder to where Sonia watches with dull eyes, pupils blown open, eyelids drooping. Her jaw’s gone slack, like she’s gaping at the obscene display before her: her darling son being defiled by that sick, deviant friend of his. Richie wants to spit in her face, too. He rocks forward against Eddie without really thinking to.

“No, I just… I want to fuck on her bed,” Eddie admits sheepishly, and Richie turns slowly back to look at him.

“Oh,” he says, licking his lips, enamoured by the notion. “You are _such_ a sick little freak, Eds. That’s so fucked up. Let’s go.” He drops Eddie abruptly, keeping one hand on him so he doesn’t overbalance but _loving_ the shocked expression as his feet hit the floor with no warning. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie grumbles, but Richie’s already dragging him towards the stairs, snatching his backpack off the floor as he goes.

He finds Sonia’s room (the only door upstairs that’s firmly closed), pulls Eddie inside with him, and deposits him on the bed. There’s a lamp on the nightstand bathing the whole room in a dull, yellow glow. Richie slams the door shut with probably too much force. “Oh, _I’m_ the sick freak, but you’re the one who’s _way_ too eager to have sex on my mom’s bed.”

“We’re the same brand of fucked up, baby doll,” Richie says, fishing the bottle of lube out of the pocket of his bag with blood-slick hands. 

“You brought _lube?”_

“What the fuck else were you going to use?”

“No, I mean, how did you even know we’d--?”

“Oh, Eddie. I was planning on fucking your brains out regardless of what happened today. I come prepared.”

Eddie’s bloodstained lips pop open around a silent gasp, spots of colour flaring up in his cheeks. Richie climbs onto the bed with him, already pulling his shirt over his head to abandon it on the floor somewhere, reaching out to pull Eddie into another kiss once it’s discarded. Their teeth scrape together. Richie still tastes blood. It’s _everywhere._ He wonders if he’ll ever manage to wash it all off, then thinks maybe he doesn’t want to. Eddie bites down _hard_ on his lip as he pulls back, grabbing at the bottom of Eddie’s shirt to rip it off of him.

“You little shit.”

Eddie smirks up at him and Richie-- _God,_ Richie loves him so much he could die. He pulls Eddie’s shirt off too roughly and bends down to bite at his throat again, _harder._ Hopefully hard enough to bruise. Eddie _yelps._ “Taste of your own medicine, brat,” Richie says, and he can’t help smiling. 

“That’s gonna leave marks,” Eddie bitches, as Richie unbuttons his pants and helps slide them off his legs, his underwear following shortly after. 

“Good.”

“What if people see?”

Richie grabs him by the jaw, turning his head up to look at him properly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know you want them to. I’m not stupid.” He lets go (Eddie, having gone limp in his grasp, nearly topples over when he suddenly finds he needs to support his own weight again), and takes Eddie’s wrist in one hand, using the other to slap the bottle of lube into his palm. “Now, how about you open yourself up for me?”

Eddie _scowls_ at that. “I want _you_ to--”

“If you don’t listen, I won’t fuck you, and I won’t help you with the mess downstairs, either,” Richie says lowly. Eddie fumbles to pop open the cap on the little squeeze bottle, hastily pouring lube onto his fingers. It mixes with the blood there and turns pink, then red. Richie watches eagerly as he props himself up on one elbow, still pouting, and reaches between his legs to rub the lube-and-blood mixture over his hole. His little cock rests, stiff and dusky pink, against his stomach, and Richie is so _tempted_ \-- barely resists the urge to wrap his hand around it while Eddie works a finger into his ass -- but he wants to draw this out. He wants Eddie to come on his cock the first time they fuck, and no sooner than that. 

He wants Eddie to _need_ his cock to get off. 

“Good job, baby. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“I want--” Eddie’s middle finger is pressed as deep inside himself as he can get it, and Richie can see the muscles in his wrist flexing as he curls it. He cuts himself off with a sharp moan. “I want _yours,_ Richie,” he whines, staring unabashedly at Richie’s hands where he’s holding them quite politely in his lap. Richie clicks his tongue and shakes his head, and Eddie tacks on a, “Please?”

“Aw, I like the sound of that,” Richie coos, reaching up to pet a hand through Eddie’s hair, sticky with congealing blood. But that’s all. Richie leaves it there, twirling the damp curls between his fingers. “Say it again. Maybe then I’ll help.”

Eddie pumps the lone finger in and out of his hole slowly. Richie can’t imagine it’s doing much for him. He has such dainty little hands, after all… “Richie,” he breathes, leaning into the slight tugging sensation as Richie plays with his hair. _“Please?”_

“Please what, darling?” Richie _does_ pull his hair, then, and Eddie gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Please finger me. Please, Richie? I want your fingers in me so bad. _Please.”_

Richie doesn’t think anything else in his life has ever sounded quite so beautiful. He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his hole with a wet sound, but he doesn’t let go. He smears some of the red-tinged lube that’s coating Eddie’s fingers onto his own, then lines his middle finger up alongside Eddie’s and presses them both in, gripping his wrist tight to direct his movements. He can feel the quaking and twitching of the muscles in his wrist, Eddie’s hand almost _spasming_ as both their fingers stretch him open. 

“Is that better?” Richie asks, smirking as Eddie nods wordlessly, transfixed on the sight of their fingers pumping in unison, slowly, in and out of him. 

“I want...” Eddie says, finally tearing his gaze away to look Richie in the eye again, “I want more.”

Richie has to press a quick kiss to his lips before he forces a second finger to unfurl from where it’s digging into Eddie’s palm, lining it up at his entrance, against Richie’s own fingers, and pressing all four inside. Eddie’s legs go tense where they’re bent up on either side of Richie, and he shies away from the intrusion. 

Richie lets go of his hair to plant a hand on his hip and hold him down against the bed, and Eddie starts up a chant of _wait wait wait_ and _that’s too much_ and _Richie please_ (the sweetest sound to ever grace his ears). “Thought you wanted _more?_ If you can’t even handle _this,_ Eds, then I can’t fuck you. You won’t be able to take it.”

“I can-- I can take it,” Eddie insists, breath hitching, eyes shining. “I can, I _promise,_ it’s just a lot, I just… I just need a second. I’ve never done this before.” Richie stops, then, giving Eddie his moment to adjust, and he leans closer into his space to pepper kisses all over his blood-streaked face.

“I’m okay,” Eddie says through a giggle when Richie won’t relent, trying to turn his face out of Richie’s reach. “I’m _okay._ You just--” Richie catches his lips in a brief kiss. “--have really big fingers, Rich. Like, seriously, what the fuck.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s _not._ Believe me, it is _not._ But take it fucking _easy.”_

Richie doesn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to feel like Eddie belongs to him thoroughly. He can’t imagine Eddie feels differently. After all, the second Richie stops trying to suffocate him with kisses, Eddie’s got his teeth and lips all over Richie’s throat, like the little monster he is. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, keep going.”

Richie rubs his thumb soothingly over Eddie’s hip as he forces him to finger himself deeper, stretching him as well as he can while he tries to control both their movements, rubbing over his soft walls and shuddering when he thinks of Sonia’s blood on their hands -- coating Eddie’s insides. His pants are feeling unbearably tight. Eddie’s breath hitches, so Richie hooks the tips of their fingers upwards harshly, aiming for what he has to assume is Eddie’s prostate. The arm supporting Eddie gives out and he collapses back onto the faded beige duvet, teeth clamping down on his lip. The motion must force his finger against his prostate a second time, if the way all the air leaves his body in a high-pitched noise is anything to go by.

He reaches out with his free hand to grab Richie’s forearm, as if to stop him, but his hips rock erratically against their joined hands, making wet little sounds as their fingers slide in and out. 

“Richie, Jesus, please fuck me.” His nails bite into the skin of Richie’s arm. He keeps fucking himself on their fingers. 

“I dunno, Eds. I’m not sure you’re ready,” Richie teases, and Eddie pulls off all at once to roll over onto his hands and knees, his round ass wiggling tantalizingly right in front of Richie’s face.

“I am. I swear. Don’t be a fucking asshole, Richie. _Please.”_ Eddie turns to look at him over his shoulder, and between the big Bambi eyes and the blood and the freckles and his soft, pouty lips, Richie’s a goner anyway, but then he says, “Please, Richie, I just want to come with you inside me,” and Richie’s scrambling to get his pants off. 

He wipes some of the lube off his hand on the corner of Sonia’s duvet, leaving a red smear on the fabric. 

Eddie’s on his knees, ass lifted in the air, but Richie sets a hand low on his back and presses down until his hips are flush with the bed, trapping his cock between his stomach and the mattress. He tugs at his legs until they’re stretched out straight behind him, leaving Eddie prone on the bed. “Hey--” Eddie tries to protest, as Richie climbs over him, knees settling on either side of his soft hips. 

“I just don’t want you touching yourself, baby. If you want to come on my cock so bad, then you can come on _just_ my cock, alright?” Richie’s hand slides up from his lower back to rest between his shoulder blades and hold him down firmly there, preventing Eddie from writhing too much as he rubs himself teasingly against Eddie’s ass. For as much as he wishes to watch every detail of this in full clarity, his glasses are already slipping down his nose, so he tosses them towards the nightstand (and misses) while he humps erratically against Eddie, who’s still trying to fight the position even when Richie’s weight is pinning him to the mattress.

“That’s not--” Eddie starts, then cuts himself off. Richie uncaps the lube again, pouring some onto his painfully stiff dick, and Eddie’s legs squirm underneath him, but he doesn’t get anywhere. “I want to-- _ah!”_ Eddie chokes on a breath, one hand flying up to push at Richie’s hip, trying to shove him backwards as Richie slides forward into the tight heat of Eddie’s perfect little ass. 

Eddie’s not nearly strong enough to stop him, and Richie, running high on the satisfaction of the act they’ve just committed and the one they’re now (finally) engaging in, isn’t about to be stopped by the feeble resistance. “Thought you said you could take it, baby doll. Thought you said you were ready,” he taunts, dipping down to press a kiss behind Eddie’s ear, aware of the strained sound of his breathing as Richie stretches him open on his cock. 

“I am,” he grits out. “I am, ‘s just… ‘s a lot.”

Richie huffs out a small laugh as he rocks forward, bit by bit, into the alluring warmth of Eddie’s body, impossibly tight around him. He’s never fucked another person before, despite all his boasting -- he’s done his fair share of research on the topic, but until now his only companion has been his own hand, and it truly has nothing on _this._ Nothing on Eddie, small and pliant beneath him, and the _heat_ of him, the way his hole seems to suck Richie right in. Nothing on the beautiful sound of him whining and moaning, or the way the scent of blood clinging to his skin and hair drowns out the smells of stale perfume and mothballs in this fucking room, or the thrill of knowing Sonia Kaspbrak lies lifeless just a floor below them, completely unaware of _everything,_ while Richie defiles her beloved son on her own bed and traces patterns on his skin with her blood -- _fucks him_ with her blood. 

“What? Too big for you?” he teases, and this time his tongue darts out to lick at Eddie’s cheek where he’s still leaning over him, close enough to make out the pinched expression on his face. He gets a mouthful of blood for it, and Eddie moans weakly under him. 

“Don’t… don’t be cocky. It’s not _that_ big.”

Richie thrusts sharply forward, feeling Eddie jerk underneath him as he hisses out _“Fucker!”_ between his teeth. The nails of the hand he’s been trying to slow Richie down with bite into the skin of his hip, probably hard enough to make him bleed, but Richie pays it no mind. “Don’t tell lies. Little shit.” He rocks forward again, still too roughly, pressing the rest of the way inside Eddie’s ass, and Eddie swears loudly again.

Richie may be half-blind without his glasses, but he can still see Eddie’s free hand curl into a fist in the duvet, soaking bloodstains into the material. 

“Tell the truth, Eddie. Feed my ego a little. Then I’ll fuck you properly, and I’ll even come in your pretty little hole so you can feel _used,_ just like you want. Okay?”

Eddie takes a minute to regain his senses (he’s still clenching sporadically around Richie’s cock as he adjusts, and Richie’s doing his damnedest not to move too much). He blinks clarity back into his eyes and says, barely above whisper, “It’s big, Richie. It’s too big. It’s too much.”

“But you’re gonna take it anyway, because you’re just desperate for it, right?”

Eddie nods.

“Use your words,” Richie chastises.

“Y-Yeah, Richie. Yeah, I will. I _am._ I’m desperate.”

“Good boy.” Richie licks more blood off his cheek before sitting up to get a better angle as he drags his hips back, slowly, and presses forward into that perfect heat again. “Does that feel okay?”

“Feels _full,”_ Eddie pants after a moment.

“Is that a bad thing, baby? If it hurts, I’ll stop.”

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s good.”

Richie takes that as an invitation to begin thrusting harshly into the slickness of Eddie’s hole, shaking the old bed frame disconcertingly. Eddie’s cry of, “Oh, fuck!” is broken up into several tiny whimpers as Richie slams his cock into him. He _tries_ to arch his back, but Richie’s hand between his shoulder blades keeps him pinned, and Richie gets the joy of watching as his muscles tense and contract under his bloodied skin with nowhere to actually _go._ _“Richie,”_ he whines, high and airy. The hand that was so desperately trying to make Richie slow down a few seconds ago finally relinquishes its grip and Eddie, instead, tries to shove his hand under his hips to touch himself.

“Oh, absolutely not, baby doll.” Richie catches him by the wrist and pulls his hand away, slamming it onto the bed by his head and holding it there. He does the same to his other hand, and Eddie gives him a bitchy little, “Richie, _please.”_

“I told you, if you want to come on my cock so bad, then that’s all you’re getting. Rub yourself on the blanket if you’re that fucking _desperate.”_

He knows damn well that Eddie _can’t,_ not with the way Richie’s got his hips pinned as he ruts down into him. The slick sound of it almost drowns out the creaking of the aged mattress springs. 

Eddie doesn’t argue. He _does_ try to fight Richie’s grip on his wrists, but with most of Richie’s damn weight pinning him down, he doesn’t stand a chance, and his mouth falls open around a quiet cry of frustration. 

“Aw, poor thing,” Richie coos, leaning down to kiss Eddie’s shoulder before sinking his teeth into the skin and tense muscle. The blood that soaked through his clothes when it spewed up out of his mother is beginning to dry and flake, and it catches in Richie’s teeth when he bites down and refuses to let go, while Eddie jolts underneath him and whispers something Richie is pretty sure is his name, low and reverent. Eddie’s clenching around him, eyes glazed, while Richie drives the thick head of his cock against Eddie’s prostate.

He unlatches his teeth from Eddie’s skin and licks at the fresh blood that wells in the wound. 

“I know you wanna touch yourself so bad, but you don’t need that to come, do you? I bet you can get off just from feeling nice and full, isn’t that right?” Eddie nods numbly, his hands curled into fists where Richie’s bruising grip has them otherwise immobilized. He hopes he can leave marks to cover up the ones from Sonia. Get rid of that reminder of what she’s done to Eddie, just like he’s covering that nasty bruise on Eddie’s shoulder with the sharp impressions of his teeth. “That’s right.” Richie kisses the base of his neck. “Of course you can. You can come just thinking about how it feels to cut someone open, I bet. Or how your mommy’s blood tastes. Or watching the light drain from her eyes.”

Eddie moans high in his throat, and Richie can _feel_ him trying to rock back onto his dick with no leverage to do so.

“You did so good killing your stupid bitch of a mother, Eddie baby. You did all the heavy lifting for us. You were amazing.” A shudder rolls down Eddie’s spine and Richie smiles against his warm skin. “I’m so proud of you, baby boy. I’m so proud. Let me take care of you, okay?”

It seems Eddie’s lost the ability to speak altogether (and probably the ability to _think,_ judging from the distant look in his pretty Bambi eyes), but he still nods, ears red, and stops squirming so damn much under Richie. 

“Good boy.” Richie squeezes briefly at his wrists and peppers kisses all across his shoulders and the back of his neck. “Why don’t you give me a nice, sweet ‘thank you’ for helping you get rid of your problem, and then I’ll come in your ass and fill you up the way I know you want? How’s that sound?”

Eddie’s mouth flaps for a few seconds, eyes going impossibly wide, but all he manages is a breathless little moan.

“You can do better than that, honey. Don’t you want my cum? Don’t you want to feel like you belong to me?”

Eddie’s _drooling_ onto the duvet, leaving a dark stain under his cheek, and Richie smirks to himself when Eddie tries to twist his neck around and blink away the haziness in his eyes. There are pink smudges of blood mixed with saliva coating the side of his face, and his hair is a disaster. The ugly beige duvet is in no better condition. Richie sits back a bit to admire the view.

“Thank you,” he manages to say semi-coherently, through red lips, and Richie didn’t think it was possible to fall _more_ in love with him, but here he is.

“Oh, baby doll, you are _so_ welcome,” Richie tells him softly, between harsh breaths. Eddie feels so good around him, better than anything he’s ever felt before, the slide of his cock eased by the slickness of blood and lube between them, and the muscles in Richie’s abdomen start to tense and contract just _thinking_ about it. He tries to fuck Eddie deeper, like it’s at all possible, grinding himself down harder into that heat and folding himself over him for a better angle. He wants to come in him as deep as possible. He wants Eddie to feel it inside him for _days_ so he can remember who owns him, and who he owes so much to. It’s unrealistic, but he’s _desperate,_ and he _needs_ Eddie to belong to him completely or he’s worried he might _lose his fucking mind._

Eddie _wails_ when Richie’s angle changes. His wrists twist and strain under Richie’s hands like he’ll be able to wriggle free and jerk himself off, but Richie isn’t fucking having it and he keeps him pinned right where he fucking is. 

“You’re so good for me,” Richie babbles as he chases his orgasm, panting roughly right by Eddie’s ear. “You were so good. I’m gonna give you everything you want. I promise. I swear. I love you so much. I wanna give you the world, baby. I wanna make you so happy.”

Eddie doesn’t answer him, but he does clench down hard around Richie’s cock, his whole body going taut, eyes squeezing shut, and his mouth falls open around a soundless cry as he comes, his poor little dick still trapped between the mattress and his stomach. The pressure is unbearably _good,_ and Richie is helpless against it. He bites down on the back of Eddie’s neck and muffles a moan against his skin as he comes as deep in Eddie as he can get.

Richie takes a few moments to unlatch his teeth from Eddie’s abused skin. He licks over the indentations his teeth left apologetically as he eases his softening cock out of Eddie, who’s gone entirely limp underneath him, eyes still closed, breathing heavily. He pries his sore fingers off of Eddie’s wrists, and as the fog of his hormone-addled desperation is beginning to clear, he dips the tip of his finger into a patch of still-damp blood on Eddie’s shoulder and uses it to trace his initials on Eddie’s lower back, just above his ass. 

It would make a damn good tattoo, he thinks proudly as he does it again. And again. Until Eddie’s got _“RT”_ written six or seven times across his back like a fucking tramp stamp. 

“I love you,” Richie tells him again, kissing over each one. He shuffles off of Eddie to drop onto the mattress beside him, and those deep brown eyes flutter open as Richie tries to roll him onto his side.

“I love you, too,” Eddie says, offering him a lazy smile. 

Richie can’t help but kiss him, just a soft little thing. “Are you alright?”

“‘m fantastic.” Eddie makes a lame attempt at giving a thumbs-up with his shaking hand.

Richie finally gets him to cooperate with being moved, and pushes him over onto his back so he can take his wrists in his hands and try to rub some of the soreness out of them. “Was that okay?”

“If it wasn’t, I would’ve told you, Rich. I swear.” Eddie’s still gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes and that dopey little grin and Richie thinks the adoration in it punches a hole through his chest. “I wanna do that all the time with you.”

“Well, good news is you can,” Richie assures him, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist before going back to massaging it. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Was I too rough?” Richie _knows,_ he _knows_ he was too caught up in the moment, and the adrenaline, and the pride and the bloodlust and that _hunger_ that he’s never dared try to sate before. He knows he should’ve taken things slower, maybe been a little _nicer._

But he also knows Eddie is more than capable of handling it. It’s the issue of whether he _wants_ to handle it that has Richie’s heart beating too fast, squeezed in a fist of nerves and impending regret.

“If I’m being honest,” Eddie says, grabbing at Richie’s hand until he can get a decent grip on it, “I kinda wish you’d hurt me _more.”_ He brings Richie’s hand to his lips and kisses over his knuckles, tongue darting out to taste the blood there.

“Have I ever told you that you’re perfect?” Richie asks, trying not to sound _too_ awe-struck.

Eddie giggles and twists their hands around to intertwine their fingers. “No, but please do elaborate.”

“You really fucking are. I’m gonna keep you forever,” Richie tells him sincerely, as he leans down to kiss him, slow and meaningful.

“Oh, that’s good, because I was kinda planning on sticking around forever,” Eddie says the second Richie pulls back from the kiss. “Not that you have much of a choice, what with the whole ‘partners in crime’ thing.”

“I prefer to think of myself as more of a casual accomplice.”

“Tell that to all the blood you just ingested.”

“Wow. You’ve really been pure evil all along, huh? You just gonna throw me under the bus at the first opportunity, or what?”

Eddie doesn’t answer him, but he does grab Richie’s face in his hands and drag him down to pepper little kisses all across his cheeks and nose. 

“C’mon, we should probably get you cleaned up,” Richie suggests when he’s done showering him in affection, running his fingers through the congealing blood matted in Eddie’s hair. 

“You’re literally crazy if you think I’m going to do anything except sleep right now.”

“And wake up covered in dried blood and cum? _You’re_ the crazy one, Eds.”

Eddie shrugs, as well as he can when he’s lying half on his side with one hand still cupping Richie’s cheek. “I don’t mind it so much. It feels kinda… nice. Like a badge of honour. Is that weird?”

Richie wonders for a second if it’s possible for all the agonizing love he feels for Eddie to kill him with one swift blow, but the too-full sensation of affection swelling in his chest abates after a few deep breaths. “No, baby. I don’t think that’s weird. Can I just clean you up a little, though? Just so you aren’t uncomfortable when you wake up?”

Eddie nods, and Richie kisses high on his cheekbone before swinging his legs off the bed and trying to stretch some of the aches out of his body. He has to take a second to find his glasses where they fell on the floor before he can leave the room.

There are red footprints on the worn carpet, smudged outlines of their stumbling feet leading from the top of the stairs to the door of Sonia’s room, and something stirs low in Richie’s stomach when he thinks of the mess down there, and of blood pouring over Eddie’s hands, and the sick sound of the knife carving through flesh. How they trailed gore from the living room all the way up here.

How good it felt to fuck into Eddie with _her_ blood covering them.

How she fucking deserved it. All of it.

“Not gonna get your fuckin’ hands on him again,” Richie says aloud, brightly, as he crosses over the bloodstains on the carpet and into the washroom. He scrubs some of the cum, lube, and blood off his limp cock and his pubes, washes the smudges of blood from his glasses, then wets two cloths with warm water to take back to Eddie. 

He’s already curled up on his side with his head on one of the pillows, eyes closed, when Richie comes back. He stops for a second in the doorway to admire it all: the rumpled, bloody, cum-stained state of Sonia’s bed, the perfect view of Eddie’s ass and the bold red outlines of Richie’s initials above it, the serene look on his filthy face as his head sinks further into the pillow and the pull of sleep eases all the remaining tension out of his little body.

It’s not even midnight yet, Richie is shocked to realize when he glances at the alarm clock on his way across the room. It feels like they’ve spent an entire eternity together under this roof, exploring that dark place that’s existed unacknowledged for far too long, but it’s barely been three hours. 

Maybe time _doesn’t_ fly when you’re having fun, or whatever the hell it is his dad loves to say. Maybe time slows down to let you enjoy what you have.

“Eds,” he says softly, crouching beside the bed and caressing his cheek. Those brown eyes blink open slowly and a genuine smile stretches across Eddie’s face when he sees Richie.

“Hey,” he says groggily, rubbing at one eye. “I’m fuckin’ _tired.”_

“Yeah, well, you’ve had a big day, champ.”

“Don’t--” Eddie stifles a giggle behind his hand, “Don’t call me that, weirdo.”

“Whatever. You’ll learn to love it,” Richie assures him. After all, he’s learned to love every other stupid nickname Richie’s ever given him. Not that he ever had much of a choice. “You think you can make it to your room? Fucking on Sonia’s bed was fun and all, but it smells like cobwebs and old lady sweat in here, and we kinda ruined the bed for sleeping. I mean, you’re laying in your cum, dude.”

“Think some of that’s yours,” Eddie argues, but he doesn’t resist when Richie pulls him up to sit and then helps him to his feet. His face twists briefly in discomfort and when Richie asks what’s wrong, as if he couldn’t guess the answer, Eddie’s at least honest enough to admit he’s feeling sore.

“Sorry.” Richie draws him in close to kiss the crown of his head as they make their slow progress to Eddie’s room down the hall. “I should’ve been more careful, considering it was both of our first times.”

“No, it’s a good kind of hurt. If that makes sense.”

And it _does._ It really does. Richie’s thighs and hips and lower back are all _incredibly_ sore, more so than he’d expected (but virgin Richie really hadn’t known _what_ to expect), but it’s gotta be one of the best feelings in the world, even just knowing _why_ he’s in that kind of pain. 

Eddie’s room is eerily untouched. The rest of the house might be bloody chaos and carnage, but when the door to Eddie’s room swings open they’re greeted with simple normalcy. No blood, no mess, no death. Everything in its place. Bed made perfectly, by hands that knew what kind of punishment to expect if it _wasn’t_ perfect. Richie pulls back the covers and helps Eddie lie down before using one of the cloths to wipe blood off of his face. 

He’s about as reluctant as Eddie to see it go, but he’s also considering the potential discomfort of letting blood dry in his eyelashes. Washing it out of his hair later will be a different story, but if Eddie wants to sleep now, Richie’s going to let him sleep. He’s admittedly pretty damn tired, himself. 

He uses the other cloth to scrub the drying cum off of Eddie’s stomach, but when he reaches between his legs to clean up the absolute mess coating his thighs and ass, courtesy of Richie himself, Eddie’s hand shoots out to stop him. “Leave it.”

“Eddie, my love, I really don’t think any of this is going to feel comfortable when you wake up.”

“I want you to leave it inside,” Eddie insists.

“Oh,” says Richie, dick suddenly making a valiant attempt at getting hard again. “Um. Yeah, I can leave it, baby, if that’s what you want. But I wanna clean the lube and stuff off of you. Is that okay?”

Eddie nods, and Richie wipes away the mess as gently as possible, dizzyingly turned on by the fact that the cum that’s leaking out of Eddie’s hole is tinged pink with blood. He might malfunction if he gets that horny again that fast, and he has to take a second to think about gross shit to calm his stupid dick. 

Eddie’s half-fucking-asleep by the time Richie even climbs into the bed beside him and pulls the blankets over them, and all he does is roll over and throw an arm over Richie’s torso and then he’s _out._

Richie, for as much as he’s still swimming in this enthralling mix of love and hatred and lust and satisfaction and _love,_ slips off to sleep shortly after, glasses digging uncomfortably into the side of his face since he can’t be bothered to expend the energy to remove them.

  
  
  
  


_“Ugh,”_ says Eddie, somewhere by his ear. Richie forces himself to wake up the rest of the way so he can open his damn eyes and see what the problem is.

“Whazizzit?” he asks, eloquently, reaching up with his sleep-numbed hand to fix his glasses. Eddie’s pulling a face as he peels -- literally _peels_ \-- himself off of Richie.

“Blood dried. Not comfy.”

“Warned you.”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie finishes separating them and tries to roll Richie off the bed so he can escape, insisting that he needs a shower and Richie better get out of his way.

Richie drags himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor and shoving his glasses up to his forehead so he can try to rub the grogginess out of his eyes. “Dude, it’s like--” He squints at the glowing red letters on Eddie’s alarm clock “--two in the morning. Can it wait?”

“I feel like someone tried to vacuum-seal my skin over the rest of my body,” Eddie complains, already removing himself from the bed and making for the door. “It absolutely cannot wait.”

“I _warned_ you,” Richie says again, but he has to admit he feels the same. A little bit of dried blood flakes off his skin and floats to the floor when he moves.

He follows Eddie to the washroom.

“We gotta do something about… all this,” Eddie is saying as he fiddles with the taps to get the water at the right temperature. He throws one arm out in a sweeping gesture around him. “Burn it down or something. So we don’t get caught. I mean…” He turns to Richie, a sort of half-smirk pulling at his lips, all mischief and no fear, not anymore, “I think it’s pretty obvious what we did.”

“Well, lucky for you, I always keep a lighter handy. What’s a little arson to go with our matricide, right?”

“Right,” Eddie says, and pulls Richie down into a kiss. He all but drags him into the shower with him, and Richie gasps at the scalding heat of the water, which gets Eddie laughing against his lips, which gives Richie no choice but to let all that fierce and all-consuming love overflow in a litany of “I love you”s while he presses Eddie against the wall to feel him squirm when the cold tile touches his skin. 

“If you get all this blood out of my hair you can fuck me again,” Eddie says lasciviously, and Richie _has_ to laugh at that, trailing kisses down his throat where he’s still got him pinned against the wall.

“Once again, the fact that you think I wasn’t already planning on doing that is hilarious.” Richie drags him under the spray of scorching water, already working a hand through his hair to rinse the dried blood from it. 

The water running into the drain is a deep red when they start cleaning themselves off, blood running down their bodies in streams and pooling at their feet. They must waste half a bottle of shampoo and an entire bottle of body wash, between the two of them, to get rid of it all, and even then Richie forgets to clean behind his ears and has to bend down while Eddie takes a washcloth covered in strawberry body wash and scrubs all over his ear and the back of his neck. The water is pale pink, by then, and when Richie leans back under the water to rinse off the suds and blood, he feels Eddie’s lips against his chest, then his throat. Sharp little teeth dig into his skin and Richie’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of his hair just as his eyes fly open. 

“Patience is a virtue.”

“My hair is clean,” Eddie says petulantly. Then after a second: _“Mostly_ clean. Richie, don’t be an ass.”

Eddie’s little cock is already firming up between his legs, and Richie is truly a weak, weak man. He pushes Eddie under the spray again and washes the shampoo from his hair. The water comes out clear this time, finally, and as he runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair to clear it all away, one hand cupping the back of his neck, he can feel Eddie shudder and see his throat working as he swallows. One glance down tells him Eddie’s _really_ enjoying the sensation.

“First of all, I _am_ an ass. Get used to it.” He pulls Eddie closer to him and lets his lips trail over his cheekbone, against the blush-darkened skin there. “Second, you’re fucking adorable, and I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life fucking the soul out of your perfect little body whenever I want.”

Eddie’s teeth clamp down over his lower lip and his hand twitches at his side, but doesn’t go anywhere.

“You learn quick, don’t you?”

Eddie nods, staring up at Richie through his eyelashes, like he’s _trying_ to kill him or something. 

“Well, here’s one for ya. Put your hands on the wall and keep them there,” Richie says, nudging him towards the far wall of the shower, away from the heat of the water. Eddie goes easily, crowding up close to the wall and splaying his hands over the tiles, elbows bent, ass sticking out just enough to capture Richie’s attention. A warm laugh spills over his lips. “You’re really such a doll, you know that? Cutie.” He pinches Eddie’s ass, not hard, but enough to earn him a glare.

“I swear it’s like you were made for me,” he rambles, as he presses into the space behind Eddie and rubs the tip of his finger over his hole, just barely pressing inside. There’s a faint slick feeling there, leftover from the lube, and Richie’s suddenly very glad Eddie talked him out of cleaning him up properly before they slept. He didn’t think to bring lube into the shower with them. He presses inside, _slowly,_ since there’s not much easing the intrusion this time, but apparently his caution is unnecessary, because Eddie rocks back onto his finger with a little sigh.

Richie thinks he might very well pass out when he realizes it’s his own cum that he’s using to stretch Eddie open, warm on his fingers as he works a second into his tight entrance. He watches on in awe as Eddie fucks himself down on Richie’s fingers, cheek pressed against the tiles, breath coming in little pants as his mouth hangs open and his tongue peeks through from behind his teeth. Richie slips a third finger inside him with little resistance and Eddie picks up his pace, brow furrowed in concentration, and Richie… Richie wants to just _consume_ him. He wants to make Eddie _his_ in every possible way. He wants Eddie to be _part_ of him.

Wants to split his skin open, splinter his ribs, and pull Eddie inside for safe-keeping.

When he says he wants to keep him forever, he _means_ it.

Richie spreads his fingers and Eddie’s hands curl into fists, but he obediently keeps them on the wall, like Richie _told_ him to, and he has to -- _has to_ \-- add to the mess of hickeys adorning Eddie’s throat and the backs of his shoulders. He wraps his free hand around his own cock as he does so, stroking himself to hardness (not that he had far to go, with the kind of show Eddie’s putting on). It’s got nothing on how it felt to be _inside_ Eddie, and anticipation trickles down his spine.

“You’re perfect,” he says against the damp skin of Eddie’s shoulder as he withdraws his fingers, dripping with his cum. Eddie whines at the loss. He’s getting that hazy look again already, like his mind is separating from his body and leaving a mindless vessel behind.

Richie _loves_ it. Thinks he might be obsessed with the notion already. “Feels that good, huh?”

Eddie starts to nod, then shakes his head. “I want more.”

“I know you do, baby doll.” Richie drags his teeth over the edge of his ear but he doesn’t bite down. “Why don’t you tell me what, exactly, you want, and I’ll see what I can do for you. Okay?”

Eddie _pouts_ at him, because _of course_ he does, because he’s precious like that, but he concedes easily enough. “I want you to fuck me, Richie,” he says, querulously. 

And Richie, even though he’s as impatient to fuck Eddie as Eddie is to _get_ fucked, opens his dumb mouth and says, “How do you wanna get fucked, Eds?” with a devilish grin that gets that pinched spot between Eddie’s thick eyebrows to deepen.

The knuckles on his clenched fists turn white. _“Hard,”_ he says through his teeth. “I want it to _hurt.”_

“Oh,” Richie says, and he barely has the sense to close his fingers around the base of his dick and squeeze to fend off that urge to come _right now, like this._ He swallows heavily and lets out a slow breath. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you, baby, alright?” he says against the bruised outline of his teeth carved into Eddie’s shoulder. “No one else is gonna make you hurt. Not without my permission, at least,” he adds, with a playful wink Eddie can barely see as he pretends to bite down on that spot again. 

“Yeah, Richie, yeah, okay.” Eddie nods along frantically as the head of Richie’s thick cock presses against his entrance. He can feel the wet warmth of his own cum starting to leak out of Eddie again, and pushes forward just enough to stop it from dripping out of his hole, but no further. Eddie whines like a wounded animal. “Only you, Richie, I only want you to hurt me, I promise, I only want you to fuck me.”

Richie shifts just the barest amount further into Eddie, the slide less smooth this time around without the excess of blood and lube. Eddie doesn’t seem to notice or care, babbling borderline incoherently as he tries to push his hips back onto Richie’s dick. Richie grabs him around the waist to stop him from moving. “What if I _want_ someone else to fuck you?”

Eddie’s head flops back against his shoulder as Richie crowds him against the wall, a shudder ripping through him when his chest hits the cold tile. He fumbles for words for a moment, too caught up in the stretch of Richie’s cock and the shock of cold against his nipples, before he manages to gasp out, “Only if you watch.”

_“Fuck,”_ Richie growls, cock twitching where it’s buried inside Eddie. “Fuck, Eddie, I love you so much.” _I love you so much I don’t even know what to_ do _with it all._ He plants his feet firmly against the rubber grips lining the bottom of the tub and fucks up into Eddie roughly. The absolutely _delightful_ fucking noises he makes, all high and whiny, echo loudly in the small space and make Richie go half out of his mind. 

“I love you,” Eddie says semi-coherently, each syllable broken up by the air being punched out of him as Richie thrusts into him as hard as he can, cock dragging deliciously over his slick inner walls. He can already picture the bruise blossoming across his chest where it’s trapped against the wall. “Want you to-- Richie, I want you to come inside me again.” Richie moans right in his ear, cheek pressed to the side of his head, nose buried in his hair, a flash of heat crawling through his gut. “Please?” Eddie adds, then, “And bite me more. I want you to. I want it to hurt.”

Richie is helpless to obey. He opens his mouth and places his teeth against the side of Eddie’s throat, dangerously close to his jugular, biting down hard enough that Eddie _squeals_ at the sensation, his insides fluttering erratically around Richie’s cock as he fucks in and out of him at a pace that’s already making the muscles in his lower back twinge and ache. 

“Please touch me,” Eddie says distantly, breathlessly, and Richie does, wrapping a hand around Eddie’s little cock and dragging his foreskin back to rub his thumb over the head before starting to stroke him roughly. Eddie’s breath catches; his chest jerks where he’s pressed to Richie bodily, and he starts up a mantra of Richie’s name, barely comprehensible, but damn if it isn’t the sweetest sound in the world.

He can feel his balls drawing up tight against his body, feel the first spasms of approaching orgasm, and he bites harder into Eddie’s throat like he can just hold him here, in this moment, forever, with the warm water cascading down his back and his legs, Eddie tight and hot around his cock making him feel better than he thinks he’s ever felt before, the residual high of taking someone’s life still thrumming low in his veins. He can picture, perfectly, the way Eddie must be stretched around him, rim red and swollen and shining with the cum he used as lube. And Eddie’s still chanting his name like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. It all makes him feel wonderfully, drunkenly possessive of this boy he’s chased for years and years, knowing the outcome would be worth it. 

If he’s going to keep Eddie forever, then forever should look just like this. 

He uses his free hand to pull Eddie’s hips back against him as much as he can, a hoarse cry tearing up out of his chest unmitigated as he gives a few more stuttering thrusts and comes hot and deep inside Eddie. 

Eddie makes quite possibly the most whorish sound ever made, throwing his head back as well as he can when Richie’s still pinning him completely to the wall. It turns into a broken, _“Richie!”_ that comes out more like a series of hiccups. He bears down on Richie’s dick as warmth floods over Richie’s fingers where he’s still stroking him, and Richie is more than pleased to find tears shining in his eyelashes when he pries his teeth from Eddie’s throat to kiss him. 

He’s still trying to catch his breath as he pulls out. Eddie’s gone altogether boneless in his arms, and Richie’s supporting his full weight as he steps back from the wall and brings Eddie with him, back under the warm spray of water, to clean him up all over again. 

At least there’s no blood to worry about this time, he decides as he fumbles for the only clean cloth they have left, running it under the water before starting to wipe the mess off of Eddie’s shaking legs. 

“You alright, baby boy?” Richie asks, lips against his throat, and Eddie makes a sound he can safely assume is assent as he nods. “Think you can stay awake until we get back to my place? We’ve got a lot to do tonight.” He sounds almost apologetic as he says it, and in some ways he _is_ \-- after all, maybe having sex a second time was a bad idea when they still have a huge mess to deal with.

Eddie sighs. Nods again. “Yeah, ‘m awake.”

A pang of affection rips right through Richie’s heart as he giggles and kisses all over Eddie’s cheek. “Yeah, but for how much longer?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie grumbles half-heartedly, and he lifts the hands that are now hanging limply at his sides to rub at his eyes, like it’ll help him get any energy back. He tries to turn around in Richie’s arms, wobbles a bit, and steadies himself by grabbing his shoulders. “Richie,” he says, eyes still tired but expression deadly serious. 

Richie has to swallow down a touch of fear at the fierceness of it, but he doesn’t have to worry about it turning him on because he’s officially tapped for the night. “Yeah, Eds?”

“I really _do_ love you.” Eddie reaches up to cup his cheek, and Richie can detect the slight tremor in it as it settles over his skin. “I have for a really long time, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

Richie leans down to kiss him, smiling as he does, and they spend a while longer just standing in the shower as the water goes cold before Eddie insists they get out so he can “get some damn sleep at some point.”

“Damn,” is the first thing Richie says when they go downstairs, dressed in fresh, perfectly clean clothes, to get plastic bags to put all their bloody belongings in.

The living room is a fucking disaster zone. He didn’t even realize blood could spray that far.

“We really did a number on her, huh?”

Eddie nods, and he’s _smirking,_ and Richie wonders why it isn’t even an _option_ to marry him. What kind of fucking ridiculous legislature people must be pulling out of their asses to take that away from Richie. “C’mon,” Eddie says, taking his hand to drag him into the kitchen so he can rummage around under the kitchen sink in search of plastic grocery bags.

“What’s your plan for setting a fire? Leave the stove on or something?” 

Eddie doesn’t answer him at first, but he does peer into the living room, purses his lips, and retrieves four more bags from under the sink. Then he says, turning to Richie with a smile: “We’ll start it right beside her. The cord on that lamp’s been getting awfully worn, and I’ve been thinking lately that it’s bound to start a fire eventually.”

Richie’s in awe of him, which is really nothing new. 

Eddie doesn’t pack much. Just enough that it doesn’t look suspicious. Some clothes to make it look like he planned on staying with Richie for a few nights, his school books so they can pretend they spent the weekend doing homework, and a few small trinkets that can be easily hidden or passed off as Richie’s until they leave for college: a Captain Midnight ring from a cereal box prize Richie shared with him _years_ ago, a couple comic books, a shoebox of photographs he tells Richie he’ll hide at the clubhouse for now, and a handful of mixtapes they’ve made over the years. There’s a little stuffed rabbit, a worn brown thing with an embroidered face that’s coming unraveled, stuffing sticking out of the seam of one ear, that he produces seemingly from nowhere as he digs through the closet for clothes. 

Richie raises an eyebrow at him when Eddie tosses it to him to put in the duffel bag. “It was from my dad,” Eddie offers. “When he first got sick.”

Richie wordlessly -- and very carefully -- adds it to the small mess inside the bag. 

It’s only after they’ve deposited _those_ bags and backpacks at the end of the driveway and collected all their dirty clothes that Richie figures out what the rest of the plastic bags were for. 

Eddie ties them around his feet to wade into the carnage of the living room, and Richie follows suit because clearly Eddie knows what the fuck he’s doing. He takes Richie’s lighter from him and spends a couple minutes fiddling with the lamp cord that runs across the floor beside the La-Z-Boy. There’s a faint smell of melting rubber.

_Richie_ spends a couple minutes admiring how much better Sonia looks when she’s dead. Eddie’s spit still glistens on her cheek, and… well, maybe he was wrong about being officially tapped out for the night. Maybe he’s still got a little bit of fuel left, after all. He leans in close to her -- not close enough to risk getting blood on his clothes, but enough to feel powerful, towering over her like this. “Burn in hell, you cunt bitch,” he growls. She doesn’t answer, obviously. Her dull, beady eyes stare out at nothing.

He undoes all the ropes, yanks the gag out of her gaping mouth, and shoves them into a bag to be disposed of later. He flips her off on the way out of the room and he hopes she can see it from hell.

He’s washing the blood off his hands when he smells the smoke.

“Well,” Eddie says, appearing in the kitchen doorway with the knife wrapped in a tea towel in one hand, Richie’s lighter in the other, “I think we’re good to go.”

“Aww, my wittle arsonist!” Richie coos, trying to pinch his cheeks as Eddie ducks and dodges, laughing all the while. 

On the front porch, they peel the plastic bags off of their shoes and turn them inside-out, and Richie wonders faintly if Eddie was secretly a criminal mastermind this whole time. 

That’d be hot as fuck, is his next thought, and it derails from there.

They stand for some time at the end of the driveway, watching flames lick up the inside of the living room window when the curtains catch. From here, they can see the spread of it into the kitchen from the flickering light winking at them from _that_ window. 

“I’m proud of you,” Richie tells him probably for the hundredth time, pressing an absent kiss to the side of his head as they watch Eddie’s house being consumed by the fire. 

Eventually, Eddie decides it’s time to go, and when they get to Richie’s house they light another, smaller fire, in the pit out back. Richie sneaks a couple wine coolers from the fridge and they sit on the grass while their clothes burn. Even if Maggie and Went notice them out here, they’ll assume it’s just another one of their impromptu sleepovers and leave it at that. 

“Wish I’d thought ahead. I would’ve bought marshmallows,” Richie says playfully, tossing a few bloodied ropes into the blaze. There’s a faint sizzling from where they’re still damp. It’s a satisfying sound.

Eddie wants to bury the knife they used, somewhere out by the dump. Richie, sentimental idiot that he knows he is, kinda wants to keep it, even if it might be incriminating if anyone ever thinks to suspect them.

He resolves to keep it hidden somewhere in the clubhouse.

“I’d kill for a marshmallow right now.” Eddie’s tucked up against his side, wrapped in one of Richie’s hoodies. Richie has an arm draped over his shoulders. 

“You’d _what_ now?”

There’s a moment of quiet, then, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Richie.” An elbow to his side. “You can’t joke about that around other people, you know. I don’t wanna go to jail because you’ve got a big mouth.”

“Hey, don’t doubt my ability to keep a secret! I mean, seriously, I kept the fact that I was madly, _dangerously_ in love with _you_ a secret for like… six years!”

“It was an ill-kept secret, Rich. _Very_ ill-kept. I think a toddler could have figured it out.”

Richie doesn’t know whether or not to be offended by that, but he’s too busy snort-laughing so hard that wine shoots out his nose, and then it doesn’t matter so much in the face of his nostrils _burning._

“Unbelievable.” Eddie thumps him on the back while he coughs and splutters.

“On the contrary, amigo, ees veery believable,” Richie attempts in his Pancho Vanilla Voice, which gets Eddie laughing, too, and it’s Richie’s favourite sound in the whole world. “God, you’re perfect,” he says when Eddie’s laughter starts to taper off. “I can’t _believe_ you wanna stick around with my dumb ass.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Eddie asks sincerely, and Richie doesn’t know _how_ or _why,_ but next thing he knows there are tears on his cheeks and Eddie’s climbed onto his lap and is trying to wipe them away.

“I-- when we were younger, I thought there was something wrong with me,” he tries to explain, a little bit incomprehensible. That's not _all_ \-- it isn't everything that's bearing down on his chest like an impossible weight -- but it's important to him that Eddie understands this. Maybe, he dares to imagine, Eddie _already_ understands. Maybe Eddie thought he was messed up in the head for years and years, too, until it all culminated in one terrifying, cathartic moment. “I thought you’d be scared away. I thought even if you _did_ like me, you wouldn’t after you figured out how fucked up I am. I know that's dumb. I _know._ But I think I'm just... really fucking happy you even wanna be with me. That you might even love me back just a _fraction_ of how much I love you.”

“You’re not fucked up, Richie,” Eddie assures, but after a moment he snorts and says instead, “I mean, you’re not any more fucked up than me, or any of the rest of our friends. There’s nothing _wrong_ with you, Rich, I promise. We’re all a little messed up, but that’s _okay._ We’ll manage. And honestly, I'm amazed that _you_ love _me_ back, anywhere close to how much I've always loved you.”

Strangely, there’s a calm in him now that he hasn’t felt in almost six years. Like all he needed was to turn the spout and let some of that darkness leak out and he could feel less like a monster and more like a human being again. Sure, he’s crying, but it’s a relieved thing. It's like coming down from a really intense high, and now everything he's been feeling just has to pour out of him in a mess of tears until his head feels less full and cloudy, between the adrenaline and the bloodlust and the sex and _everything._ It all slams into him at once and he doesn't get much of a choice but to let it all dissipate on its own time while calm seeps in to replace it.

Eddie presses a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for several long seconds. Richie knows the calm isn’t forever. The strange cruel hunger that grows in them is like weeds, and the roots are impossible to destroy. He knows it isn’t forever, but he takes it while he can have it, while he can just hold Eddie close and feel peace, like they aren’t drifting in the wake of an atrocity they’ll never be able to undo.

Richie wouldn’t want to undo it, anyway. 

“I trust you, Richie,” and “I love you,” and “Thank you,” Eddie tells him while he holds Richie close to his heart and the fire crackles softly beside them, casting heat over them both, and Richie wonders what kind of state the Kaspbrak household must be in by now, if anyone’s noticed or called the fire department, if there’s nothing left but a burned-out shell, if Sonia is just a charred pile of bone in the black skeleton of Eddie’s childhood home. And he smiles against Eddie’s chest.

The calm isn’t all the same as when they were innocent little kids who knew nothing of fear and pain and death and anger. It’s still marred by those weeds, in some small way. 

He wouldn’t undo what they’ve done. He knows, somewhere deep in his heart, that he’d do it again. He _will_ do it again. Maybe he doesn’t know yet how, or when, or _who._ But weeds must be fed just the same as flowers, and fire needs fuel, and will burn whatever it can reach.

* * *


End file.
